


Sword Beats Hammer

by argentGeist



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Hitmanstuck, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-07-11 04:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7028545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argentGeist/pseuds/argentGeist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Terranos City: made up of five districts, filled with notorious hitmen, and often deeply divided amongst individuals and gangs alike. Dave Strider is just beginning to make his way out from under the shadow of his older brother, who also happens to be one of the best hitmen in the Veilchen Borough, if not all of Terranos. But when a fight between the Striders and a mysterious duo from the Gold Fortune District goes awry, Dave finds himself infatuated with the world beyond his apartment... and with the boy in blue who saved his life.</p><p>(Hitmanstuck AU by blackoutballad)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which the Author Investigates How Many Synonyms of the Word “Killer” Can Be Used before Exhausting the Reader’s Sanity

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hitmanstuck AU](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/201631) by blackoutballad. 



> chapter one! which is more of a prologue i guess. will try to post updates weekly...?
> 
> title born from a reference to the fire emblem weapons triad, where swords beat axes(/hammers) beat lances beat swords. also other references in the work.
> 
> as mentioned above, this is an au of the hitmanstuck au by blackoutballad(.tumblr.com)! it's really cool and there's a lot more to it than i think i may be able to represent here so go check it out on her blog.
> 
> this is my first fanfic for homestuck, though i've been lurking on ao3 for literally years. i stopped using tumblr so if you have any questions or suggestions please leave it in the comments section below. i hope you like this stuff i wrote!!
> 
> also, what is a work skin???

A figure clad in black sprints through the dimly-lit streets of Veilchen Borough, briefcase in one hand and semi-automatic pistol in the other. It is tonight that they will die and valuable information will be extracted in exchange for a sizeable sum of cash; however, their impending murder will mark only the beginning of a long-winded and zigzagging sort of conflict.

Who is this wanted person?

> Enter name.

Your name is not available at the moment. Actually, you have gone through extreme measures to forge legal documents, erase all prior relationships with anybody you knew beyond perfunctory greetings, vastly and artificially alter your physical appearance, and essentially disappear from the world you grew to loathe and disdain. Several times you had all the risks and dangers associated with your position explained in gruesome detail and several times you were given the chance to retreat back into the security of your peaceful and boring life even after your first few missions. But you don’t regret anything. From the very start being a gang member was a thrill unlike any other, and after your first real murder you knew you could never look back at the life you once knew. But the one thing you could never leave behind was time itself, and your employers took notice of your waning agility and shrewdness. As decrepit and outdated as you are now, still you are ashamed to reveal your current shitty escape plan, but perhaps in light of your inevitable failure you could care to share it.

You glance behind you as you feel your muscles begin to twitch with exhaustion. But the very thought of your aggressors, silent and pristine in their pursuit, propels you forward. With years of gang fights came hundreds of fascinating tales of their latest kills and exploits from various commissions, all of which only served to escalate your respect for them. You’ve learned of the numerous ways of referencing the nameless assassins native to the Borough, the more idiotic nicknames including “Dark Duo” (too corny), “Rooftop Ninjas” (too boring), and “Dancing Shadows” (sure, dancing to death’s doorstep). Indeed, each of these names had veritable origins: the pair conducted their business almost exclusively during the darkest of nights, and they were renowned for both their nimble parkour and their confounding inability to ever lose their target.

 In any case, you have no idea how long they’ve been waiting for the right moment to strike; based on what you’ve heard, your days probably have been numbered since the moment someone commissioned your removal from existence—you wouldn’t be surprised if it were your own clan who sentenced you to death. But unfortunately you’ve found yourself relying on a vaguely reliable tactic that halted some of your previous hunters long enough to fire a few rounds into their vital regions. It’s cheap and you feel awful every time you execute it, but you hope that by fleeing into the neighboring precinct, in this case the Gold Fortune District, you can at the very least add a second to your lifespan while they consider crossing potential enemy lines.

You begin to feel an insistent ache in your chest and soreness in your arms—now you really understand how much value you’ve lost in the eyes of your employers—as you cock your useless little gun and your eyes dart about wearily in an attempt to catch a sneak peek at your personal assassins. Throughout your entire career, you’ve never been given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to greet these infamous hitmen. In fact, you’re torn between being grateful for surviving this long and feeling honored for having the two most mysterious and most successful hitmen in Veilchen Borough sent after you. At this point, you probably won’t even make a meter into the Gold Fortune District, and your lungs and legs and mind are about to give out.

You turn a corner and there they are, the gleaming marble walls of the buildings that outline the border of the Gold Fortune District. Under the shimmering halo of a street lamp at two o’clock, however, two dark figures materialize. Your eyes widen as you catch the glints of swords—really though, why use swords when guns are so much more practical—and you pray to the god who forsook you the moment you descended into the underworld, hoping for a final hint of mercy.

You achieve temporary lift-off as you dive for the border and feel the fabric tearing at your shoulder when you skid across the ground with your eyes tightly shut. Your briefcase clatters loudly as it bounces and its momentum tugs at your limp body until you lay prone and still. From far away you hear music and shouting, perhaps a celebration or your imagination, you aren’t quite sure which anymore…

A cold steel swordtip is pressed to the back of your neck and a fancy sole is planted on your gun, and you smile weakly at your captors. A calloused hand gently pries your fingers from the briefcase and you feel the slightest increase in pressure from the sword in case you dare to resist. And then—

“Tallyho!”

A resounding gunshot. You plant your face into the pavement and squeeze your eyes shut.

“Paws off the old viper, both of you Striders,” the same jolly voice, with a distinct accent foreign to this city, calls out from deeper within the District.

“Our territory, our kill!” a new voice chimes in playfully. You try to swallow, but your mouth is full of dust and you suppress a cough before the movement causes you to gouge yourself on the sword.

“Who the hell are you‽” the hitman to your side shouts in surprise. Judging by his voice he couldn’t possibly have been a legal adult, much less a professional hitman, for long.

“Dave, we’re in public. Watch your fucking language,” the one with the blade says evenly. “Jake, isn’t it a bit late to take your cousin out for target practice?”

“Mr Strider, I must have you know that my _apprentice_ is currently undertaking his very first solo mission. I’m just here to make sure fruitcakes like you don’t get in the way of things. So if you would please allow us to proceed as smoothly as possible?”

Well, at least your life is worth a little bit more now.

“First solo operation, huh? Perhaps we should teach your little protégée a little lesson about right of way when it comes to who gets the kill, as our welcome-to-the-underworld-gift.”

There’s an audible grip-tightening of glove against handle on either side, prompting you to open your eyes to appraise your current situation. Four hitmen surround you, the tension thick as Prospitian chowder. Your current captors consist of two blonde men—brothers, you guess—in shades, one rounded and one pointy ( _Tacky_ , you think), and in matching button-downs and vests. The one at your back is decked in orange and black apparel reminiscent of Halloween, and wields a katana in either hand. He appears older, calmer, and definitely more experienced with not a furrow creasing his face. The other in the offsetting red, black, and white is hyperalert but jumpy. He simply drops your briefcase with a muted thud as his hand flies to unsheathe his broadsword, as if on the brink of sprinting forward to slice at the enemy. They are silent and poised to defend their claim, their (you hope) hard-earned prize.

Across from them are two other men, both similarly endowed with an unruly mop of black hair, thick-rimmed glasses, outrageously misaligned incisors, and expressive actions foreign to the men you assume are the Striders. Presumably the gunshot came from one of two black pistols in either (quivering?) hand of the man in varying shades of green. His easygoing grin indicates not arrogance but an excited defiance in rising to a challenge, a gregariousness difficult to find in hitmen of Veilchen Borough. To his left is his charge, a bright-eyed boy with a hammer who, in parallel with his red counterpart, is clearly agitated, though he makes virtually no effort to contain himself; his front teeth unconsciously worry his bottom lip and his hands continually tighten and relax their grip on a hammer massive enough to beat anyone into hues of black and blue resembling his own attire.

“Oh?” is all the green one says. Though the word itself dissolves into the still night air, it lights a tiny spark, a signal clearly communicated to all present: _Challenge accepted._

“Then let’s make this a tad more interesting, shall we?” continues the man in orange. He sheathes one katana, the other steady and resting on your neck. “They say the ultimate indication of a master’s prowess is the excellence of their student.”

“By golly, Dirk, if you’re going to keep pang-wangling and foolishly believe that your brother can best John here, then my name isn’t Jake English!”

You instinctively bristle. A harmless action, you imagine, except--

Jake twirls his pistols and sets them neatly in their holsters with a flourish. “It looks like the stakes have been upped.” He stares you down, having read your seemingly miniscule movement.

“Uh…what?” John voices everyone else’s thoughts.

“Our little trophy here belongs to the Makara clan!” Jake exclaims, startling everyone with his rapid deduction. “No other secret society crook would be moved so quickly at the mention of the English clan. I mean, in no way am I affiliated with those cabbage hats these days, but you know, that’s really doubling the stakes!”

“Hm.” The tiniest flicker of a smile tugs at one end of Dirk’s mouth. He glances at his brother for all of three seconds and you feel like an entire in-depth conversation has just taken place.

Meanwhile Jake places a hand on John’s shoulder with a warm expression. “I got this, Jake,” John says eagerly, hands fidgeting with the hammer. “I didn’t do all that training for nothing.”

“Indeed you didn’t,” Jake replies, “but I’ve known Dirk for years and he’s a conniving sort of fellow, whether we’re brawling or negotiating. I’ll be damned if none of that were instilled in Dave.”

“Dave, huh? How come I never got to know him? I bet we’d be great friends.” John pauses expectantly, but Jake shrugs dismissively and bites his lip.

“You ready?” Dirk calls, vocally inserting himself between them.

John enters a defensive stance, legs spread shoulder-width apart with his hammer at the side, and Jake backs off onto the sidewalk. “Bring it on,” he shouts, with a wide bucktoothed grin.

“Alright.” Dirk grabs the scuff of your coat and swings you onto the sidewalk—what enormous strength contained in such a lean body—and as soon as you hit the ground the sword point has returned to your neck. You notice Jake’s joined you when he places his fancily-shoed foot upon your back.

“Sic ‘im, Dave.”

You see Dave for only a split second before suddenly he’s a blur, he’s circling John at a supersonic speed, he’s flying just as much as he’s fighting, he puts up such a performance that John’s unable to dodge the elbow to his back and he flies toward the ground, only to have a knee thrust upward into his stomach. John makes an awful choking sound but despite his pain he swings his hammer, narrowly missing Dave’s abdomen, and the momentum helps him to his feet as strong gusts of wind begin sweeping the battlefield. He quickly aims for Dave’s legs, and had Dave not reacted as quickly as he did his skinny legs would most likely have been smashed into pieces with a hammer that size. Now airborne, Dave slashes at John’s outstretched arms, but despite the deep gashes across his biceps John without hesitation grabs Dave’s wrist and throws him to the ground. Before John can end the fight with a decisive blow to Dave’s prone body Dave propels himself off the ground and into John’s ankles, taking him down as well.

As you watch the boys tussle (Jake’s making fists and gritting his teeth; Dirk has an irritatingly neutral expression) you remember the gun in your hand. It’s an autopistol, nothing notable except that it’s battle-ready and you are pretty sick of this shit. If they aren’t going to kill you right now, you might as well fire your final shots at some of the most infamous hitmen in Terranos. _It doesn’t matter who_ , you think, idly watching red and blue dance together in their vicious showdown. The two grown men above you are completely focused on the match, most likely running a litany of criticisms of both students through their minds. They’re just postponing your death with a bit of fun, but unlike the hitmen, at this point you really have nothing to lose.

You raise your gun and fire. Once, twice, thrice in rapid succession until you’re out of bullets. One of them decommissions a street lamp and darkness sweeps over the scene.

There are shouts and hissed curses and then you scream, scream at your wrist spurting blood everywhere and at your hand, still gripping the gun, nearly a meter away. Then your other hand is neatly severed in the same way and you can’t believe you’re unfortunate enough that the pain doesn’t force you into unconsciousness. Dirk brushes the suitcase away with a deft stroke of his bloodied sword.

“John? John! Dave!” Jake calls out, panicked and running to where John and Dave were only moments earlier, all the while muttering an endless stream of apologies directed at nobody.

Dirk on the other hand grabs a handful of your hair and jerks your head upward. “Playtime is over,” he whispers, the anger absent from his face seeping into his words. “Any last words before I send your headless corpse six feet under?”

“Fuck you all,” you spit. You kind of just want this all to be over, regardless of where you end up in the afterlife. “You unaffiliated hitmen shouldn’t underestimate the power of the Makara family—“

“Cut the bullshit,” he says, and your vision goes white as he tightens his grip on your scalp and slices your head off.

 

> Initiate abrupt and probably permanent shift in point of view.

Your name is Dave Strider. You are the (self-proclaimed) second-best hitman and the first-best mixer of sicknasty beats in Veilchen Borough, and you have just woken up covered in Smuppets. Immediately you try to thrash about to free yourself from this plush perdition of pornographic puppets, but you quickly discover that you are duct-taped to the kitchen table and otherwise stark-naked.

“GOD _DAMMIT_ , BRO!”

How do you proceed?


	2. In Which Dave Strider Is an Insufferable Prick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hallo again! here is chapter two, a bit longer than the first... hope it's not terrible???
> 
> like i mentioned last time, i don't use tumblr anymore (i'm not argentgeist@tumblr but i wish i had that url) so if you have any questions or suggestions, i'd super appreciate if you could post in the comments or message me here. thanks!!
> 
> also, for reference later in the chapter: in azumanga daioh, there is a joke/superstition/? is that if you break your chopsticks neatly, you'll get into a good university; conversely, if you break them shittily, you'll get into a shitty one. this is what the refrance.

Your name is Dave Strider, you are the (self-proclaimed) second-best hitman and the first-best mixer of sicknasty beats in Veilchen Borough, and you have just woken up stark-naked and duct-taped to the kitchen table and covered in Smuppets. Bro is not in your visible vicinity and no amount of wriggling and writhing can help you at the moment. Yelling more will probably only freak out your neighbors, and while you don’t know them very well—especially because you don’t know them very well—you certainly don’t want them to find you like _this_. What will you do?

> Scream and shout like a spoiled brat having a tantrum.

> Break free of the duct tape with your raw strength and power.

> Give up and lie on the table in despair.

**> Scream and shout like a spoiled brat having a tantrum.**

You are just about to do so when you realize three things: one, you may not be a spoiled brat but you _are_ an insufferable prick, and throwing a tantrum will certainly not help your case; two, you were just shouting your ass off, the only result being an even hoarser throat from before; and three, under most circumstances Bro really wouldn’t give a fuck until he felt like it, which could take days knowing him. At least he left your shades _oh no he did_ not _leave them on the countertop._ You stare at them longingly, feeling even more vulnerable than when you realized you were physically incapable of moving.

**> Break free of your sticky ensnarement with your raw strength and power.**

You try your luck again at activating your inner Hulk, but for whatever reason you feel unbelievably sore and exhausted. You attempt to slide a limb out when suddenly there’s a sharp pain shooting up your arm—something tells you it’s more than just the tape pulling out your arm hairs—and you bite your lip to silence yourself, even though nobody’s around. Glancing downward you can’t see much, but twisting your right wrist tells you that it is swathed in medical bandages coupled with a splint. Welp, you guess hand-to-hand combat’s off the agenda for a while. And swordfighting. And playing videogames. Fuck everything.

**> Give up and lie on the table in despair.**

You suppose that’s the only thing left to do now, seeing as Bro is either ignoring you or out of the apartment. Sighing through your nose, you try to settle in a more comfortable position as you wait. How did you get here anyway?

The sound of a gunshot outside pierces your ears and suddenly you’re thrown backward in time. You remember your brother cradling you in his arms, eyes darting all over your body to check for injuries while whispering your name and asking, pleading with you to stay with him, and then he’s an orange blur flash-stepping to your side. Before that there are endless shrieks and a large man, olive-skinned and dark-haired, running toward you, shouting your name and another one you can’t think of.

And then there’s a blue-eyed boy, completely disregarding your feint and throwing himself onto you, shouting in a voice that has some degree of familiarity although you don’t recall ever meeting him before. You two fall to the ground (you had instinctively struggled and tried to keep your balance, landing on your wrist—bad decision, now you realize) and he’s got his arms wrapped tight around you to keep you from moving. The wind picks up while your heart beats faster and bullets seem to slow and curve around you. And before that you’re fighting, fighting, wanting to make your brother proud—

The door slams, snapping you out of your flashback. “ _Tadaima, Dave-kun_ ,” Bro calls from the entryway as he kicks off his shoes.

“What the fuck, you shameless weeaboo?” you say as he enters, gesturing at your predicament with a slight tilt of your chin. “Was this really necessary?” _And gimme my shades, god dammit._

“I thought you might be cold and lonely if you awoke before my return.” He places a large circular tray of sushi on the counter, setting his shades right by your own.

(As long as you can remember, you two had the implicit understanding that as long as you were within each other’s company, you both would either be with or without shades, without exception. You’re secretly relieved every time he follows through; you don’t know if it’s because you know it’s just for you, though you hope he feels the same way when you do it too.)

 “Smother you with Smuppets; two birds with one stone.”

“Smuppets, more like metric fuckton of disgusting fetish material,” you grumble. “And the duct tape?”

He breaks his chopsticks with a _snap!_ and uses them to mix wasabi into the little soy sauce container. “Security reasons.”

“You’re not going to college with a break like that,” you say, hoping to render your growling stomach inaudible. In an instant you regret your words, remembering he dropped out of high school when you were young to take care of both of you…

“You’re not going to college duct taped like that,” he replies without missing a beat, reminding you of your predicament and making you secretly sigh in relief. “Open up, little dude.”

“God dammit Bro, lemme gooooo,” you groan, and he stuffs salmon and rice together into your mouth to shut you up.

“I had to tape you down so that when you woke up you wouldn’t do any stupid shit,” he explains as you chew and swallow indignantly.

You’re about to protest some more but he pokes the bendy straw of an apple juice box at your lips. You automatically slurp with as much suction power as your poor lungs can manage, as you absolutely cannot turn down this once-in-a-lifetime chance to drink the stuff without a rooftop strife.

“…you were unconscious,” he says, watching you relish the experience. “I didn’t know if you’d sustained any gunshot wounds, or something. I think you hit your head when English’s kid tackled you to the ground.” _I mean, when he possibly saved your life. I was really worried about you._

“Oh yeah, Bro,” you start before he can continue this awkward almost-feelings jam. “Who was that kid I fought? I feel like I’ve met him before, somewhere. _Somewhere, over the rainbow_ —“

“Gay,” he comments on your singing, especially because you were unironically on-tune. “Maybe you hit your head a little too hard.”

You look away, always unsure whether he himself uses that term ironically or not. “Tell me before I explode from curiosity like an atom bomb built from Einstein’s decaying skeleton.”

Bro finishes his half of the sashimi platter. “Li’l bro, you gotta come up with something better than that. I bet my AR could find that exact quote in one of my pesterlogs from five years ago.”

Your mind is still fuzzy and your arm still throbs, but you grin widely at him. “Alright man I ain’t complainin’, but it’s my heart that you been playin’, but unlike you oh fair blonde maiden, bro you sure don’t see me hatin’, cuz I’m unafraid to brave the hate and show the world you ain’t no saint, but—“

“Alright, alright, I get it. Now shut up and eat.”

You see the tiniest smile flicker across his face and you nearly forget he taped you to the kitchen table and covered you in Smuppets. Then he starts laying fish on your face and you remember how huge of a douchebag he is.

“Fuck you, dude,” you mutter, jerking your head in different directions and working your tongue around your face. It’s a race against time and gravity as soy sauce begins dribbling down your face.

Once he’s satisfied with the simultaneous work of art and potential health hazard that is raw fish on gross face, he replies, “His name’s John Egbert, little cousin of Jake English,” as if together you’ve created the correct password and that’s the gleaming treasure inside.

_Treasure,_ you snicker, _yeah right. He’s just a kid I fought._

 “Why do you ask?”

_And he saved my life._

“I just wanted to thank him.” The words slip out of your mouth before you even think them. You pause a bit too long, pretending to work down the last few slices of fish, before saying, “Show a little appreciation for a bro’s help, yannow?”

“No.”

“What?! But whyyyyyyyy?” Being in the presence of your brother and only your brother certifies you to be a whiny little asshole.

“It’s dangerous, you little shit.” He narrows his orange eyes at you, making you squirm because no way are you believing for a second that he’s tied you down for your own safety rather than because he’s a big dickwad. “There was a gunshot earlier; did you hear or were you still out? And you twisted your wrist, so either you fight disadvantaged or run like a shameless runt. You’re defenseless, Dave.”

“Aw hell no,” you start, “now is not the time for your maternal instincts to kick into gear. Dearest Bro, I have a mission to complete. A world to save.”

“Mmmmhm.” He nods absentmindedly, attention shifting away from you and toward cleaning up the kitchen as you enter a melodramatic tirade. Maybe you can annoy him into letting you go?

“Gunshots ringin’ through the light of day, world be like ‘oh shit where’s Dave,’ the hitman who just can’t be defeated, cuz Bro you know I need that street cred, babies rainin’ down from the skies, it’s me who saves their li’l tushes from demise, and when my apple juice stash runs low, upon me the supermarkets they bestow—“

“Now that was a shitty rhyme,” Bro says, vaguely amused. “Good raps need at least to have understandable grammar.”

You stop and groan in exasperation. “Broooooooo, the Gold Fortune District calls! I must embark on this one quest—mysterious boy in need of spankin’ gratitude, sir I promise this ain’t no platitude, yannow? So would you be so kind as to release me from this ridiculous sticky contraption—“

 “This isn’t just about you and your unfathomable quantities of gratitude, Dave.” He begins cleaning up his area of the kitchen, setting out your fish on its own plate.

Your eyes follow him as he carefully rearranged his beloved Smuppets. “Oh?” But actually though—isn’t it?

“It’s about honor, Dave, about preserving the Strider glory.” He turns his back to you, ‘cause he thinks he’s so cool and dramatic. Still, you listen intently. “Even though I beheaded the Makara agent, English and his little blue protégée took the loot that night because you were injured and I rushed you back home to make sure you were okay. The Striders are reputed to be one of the best hitman duos in all of Terranos City, and if wind catches that an incident like this occurred, then who knows when our next meal may be.”

Bro says this like the weatherman calmly pointing out upcoming blizzards and tornados, but something tells you it’s not just about this goddamned Strider glory he’s been going on and on about since you were young. Those attempts at instilling pride in yourself are getting stale, and you can only imagine how Dirk must’ve been feeling last night—fear for your safety, anger at losing the bounty on the agent’s head, humiliation that you failed him…

“Dude, then I’ll go find the guy and give him a big warm friendly thank-you hug, and then I’ll beat the shit outta him for ya, how’s that?”

He turns back toward you so you can see his narrowed eyes. “Dave, you need to train a lot more after what happened. You can’t go running off on your own looking for a fight, especially with your wrist in that condition. When I come back we’ll have a proper strife and we’ll start from there, alright?”

“Bro, c’mon, just lemme outta this ballpit from hell and stretch a bit? Maybe leap out the window, commune with the crows?” You’re getting a little desperate and quite uncomfortable, more with Dirk’s attitude than anything. “Dude, I can handle myself fine in a fight, last night was just—“

He places his shades back on his face and moves to exit. “No, Dave. Look, I’ve got a rendezvous I can’t miss. I need to reassess and ascertain our situation in the Borough, so don’t you dare go around all willy-nilly fucking shit up. If I find out you left the apartment, then unless someone beats me to it, I’ll kick your skinny little ass into next week and then I won’t even need to tape you to the table.”

You lift your head up, upper body struggling against the tape. It’s surprisingly hard with a decommissioned wrist, since even making a fist strains the muscles around it. “Can you please let me leave the apartment for once? It’s domestic abuse to lock your little sibling stuck in a closet you know—“

“No,” Bro says forcefully, and the word alone shoves you back down onto the table. “Dave, you wouldn’t even be able to point out the Borough on a map of Terranos City. You don’t know where the nearest supermarket is, or the borders of the other districts, or—“

You try to butt in, “And I’ll never know if you don’t even fucking let me go outside—“

“ _Enough_.” His voice is just slightly raised, but he takes off his shades and the startling fury in his bright orange eyes burns deep into your mind. “Dave, it’s dangerous outside. You may be a hitman, and we may have strifed hundreds, even thousands of times. But unlike me… you’ve never killed someone before. And I mean it when I say that there are people out there who would love to kill you on the spot.”

He watches you for a response. When you don’t say anything, Bro replaces his shades again and wordlessly glides toward the door. But you think something has changed. You instinctively regret having interrupted him, but at that moment, you felt like, maybe…

“Wait, Bro?” you say tentatively. You’re not sure what you want to say, but you suddenly really don’t want to be left alone right now.

“If you need to pee then I’m sure you can control your bladder for a couple hours. Otherwise I won’t be the one cleaning up the table.” But he stops, waiting for a response.

You lick your lips. “How come you never let me go solo?” You want to venture further but don’t.

He freezes for a moment, then leaves just a tiny bit faster as if to make up for lost time. You hear the—click!—of the front door, and you’re alone again.

“God _dammit_ , Bro!” you groan for the third time today, fast approaching a new record. You brush off his lack of response as another one of the stupid things he does to tick you off, but you get the idea he isn’t going to be terribly happy with you for quite a while. The last time he got this protective was a few years ago when you’d decided you wanted to become a hitman and he locked you in the apartment for a solid two months… but there is no time for regaling that story when you are busy making your way to freedom!

After what seems like an hour of very delicate wriggling and squirming (okay, in reality that was only ten minutes and twenty-three seconds) you finally extricate your intact left arm from the jaws of the duct tape. From there you make quick work of the rest of your sticky prison, and in a triumphant gesture you send all the Smuppets flying into the air, creating a brief rainbow shower of pornographic puppets. You decide not to pay attention to the fact that now they are scattered all about the kitchen and Bro will probably refuse to pick them up, which means you’ll have to make a whole lot more unnecessary contact with the felted little bastards.

So you ignore them, clean your face in the sink, and eat the rest of the sushi. You thoughtfully chew a slice of octopus, wondering now how you’re gonna find this kid. Evidently Bro won’t be of any use, which is a problem because whereas he can list all the hitmen of Terranos City and their respective districts, you can count the number of people whose names you know on one hand. It’s partially Bro’s fault since he refused to let you get really involved with anybody outside of your family, but while you’re grateful for his concern (especially those mornings when he came back trying to cover up his limping and you knew somebody had betrayed him) sometimes you secretly wish that there was a real human being in your life other than Bro. You’re not his baby brother anymore; you’re a hitman, and you have the right to venture into those shining, occasionally bullet-riddled streets on your own.

Streets, huh? You stare at the window that opens over the fire escape and out onto the grimy scenery. A person lights a fat cigar and tosses an empty beer can to the side, not-so-narrowly missing a bag of trash laying split open on the sidewalk. A dirty, originally white dog laps up strange, bright green liquid oozing from a drainage pipe, while a strange hum emanates from the adjacent concrete building. You turn back inside and grab your shades. It’s pretty grody out there for sure, but somehow you find your gaze returning out there. Out there, the crows are free from depending on you for company, buildings are filled with humans each with their own bubbles of existence, and perhaps there’s more to life than awaiting one untouchable brother to come home with the next mission or the next meal.

_And there’s that boy who saved you… what was his name? John Egbert? Does he have friends? Why is he a hitman? Why did he seem so excited to fight you, when you felt only anxiety and pressure?_

You look back out the window. Your favorite crow caws at you from a telephone line, as if beckoning you. You smile slightly, then hear a sickening _urrrgghhh_. Looking back down at the sidewalk, you see the dirty white dog has barfed up a puddle of bright green. Maybe outdoors isn’t such a…

Nope, outside is where John is, and outside is where you need to be. You close your eyes and slip your aviators over your face. It is currently six-twelve in the evening; Bro’s been gone for about twenty-four minutes and fifty-three seconds. _A couple hours_ , he said he’d be out, and you sigh in exasperation. You hate it when he’s vague like that, especially about time, because “a couple hours” on some days meant exactly two hours and on others could fall anywhere from an hour and thirty seconds to four hours and fifty-nine minutes. He’s precise in his imprecision and you’re sure he knows exactly how much it irritates you.

But in any case, you’re certain you’ve got just the right amount of time to get started on your own solo mission. Well, at least the opening investigation, which is always the most important.

On that note, you down the last of the sushi and grab another apple juice from the fridge (you have to swing open and slam the door as fast as you can, or else the swords will all fall out and swords are even harder to clean up than Smuppets). You slip into your room and don a simple red v-neck and some ratty jeans. You poke your head into the bathroom and see your vest and button-down, hanging from the shower rail, because of course Bro would never settle for anything less than handwashing the most expensive clothing you own. Around the corner your gloves dangle precariously from fruit knives lodged in the door of an empty cabinet. The poor cutlery must have some serious identity crises.

Looking sufficiently ingenuous (besides the shades, but you can’t remove those babies), you gingerly make your way down the fire escape out onto the streets, checking for Bro around every corner. The crow and dog are both gone, but the bright green puddle of vomit seems to be slowly and permanently discoloring the surrounding sidewalk concrete. You consider searching for John Egbert directly, but if he were anything like you, he’d be in constant contact with his mentor—Jake English, was it? Though you were pretty sure the English clan was based in Emrallt—who seems to have some sort of history with your brother. Without being absolutely certain of his location, you can’t risk Bro finding out that you actually sought out this John Egbert, much less that you left the apartment.

That leaves you with one surefire option. It’s the only place beside your apartment that you know inside-out since Bro used to hold a part-time job there and you still stop by every once in a while. It receives a large amount of traffic because of its trade, and it’s well-known even outside of the Borough because of its unbiased and impeccable service to all customers, regardless of their associated district. With any luck, its residents or customers will be able to point you toward your mysterious boy.

And so, you make your way to the Zahhak Biomechanical Autoshop.


	3. In Which the Author Wants to Use the Word "Kerfuffle" Really Badly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first things first... all my love to the victims and their families and friends of the orlando mass shooting. i am a queer & trans person of color and it was a little bit harder going to work today, where almost everyone is white and cishet, and being forced to remember that they have the ability--the privilege--to choose how much my identity matters to them. if you are not queer a/o a person of color, please take a moment to step back, withdraw your voice from public online spaces, and think about how this does affect you, so muchly so, but not as much as it hurts queer/trans people of color, especially the queer latinx and queer muslim communities.
> 
> second: i usually keep a backlog of chapters. currently i have chapter 4 almost ready but no chapter 5 yet, because this past week has been a lot. so chapter 4 will be on time but chapter 5, and maybe 6, might a little late. just for future reference.
> 
> third: i hope you enjoy this chapter!! if anybody is too out-of-character (especially dave ugh i worry i project myself onto him/them sometimes) then please let me know and i'll try to rectify it! and also, re-realizing that homestuck--and by extension all the fanart and fanfiction and fandom--is fading away, always makes me a bit sad... so, thanks for following this far!

Zahhak’s shop is uncharacteristically empty, save for a sleepy stoner spacing out in the corner and the shop assistant perched on the wall and gripping a shelf lined with various robotic body parts. It isn’t until you approach the shelf and begin appraising some of the items (there are bits and pieces where you recognize your brother’s handiwork, and you can’t help but wish you could produce something useful as well) that she actually notices you.

“Dave, hallo!” The elongated tails of her olive green peacoat flutter gracefully as she alights onto the customer service counter. She may be on the chubbier side, but even your brother struggles to match her skills in parkour, and she never fails to impress you when she lands on the countertop without displacing a single sheet of paper.

“’Sup, Nepeta? Where is everybody?” You scan the shop for the guy in charge, but you only catch sight of the stoner lighting a joint. You’re pretty sure Zahhak would throw a fit if he caught anybody stinking up his lovely autoshop.

“Well, Equius is working in the back with one of his clients, and Gamzee over there is waiting for them to finish.” She tilts her head toward the stoner, who waves lazily. “You need him for something?”

“Actually,” you look down at your shoes; why are you getting all bashful? This is silly. “Uh, I’m looking for someone in the GFD, and I figured since this is the most swankified place in town, I figured maybe y’all would know a thing or two on how to reach the mister.”

Nepeta flashes a toothy grin and adjusts her sitting position on the table. “You’ve come to the rrright place, Mr. Strider! You’re in luck, ‘cause our clients here today are from the Gold Fortune District! Maybe they can help you out.” And of course she points to the last person you were planning on talking to in the shop. You’d rather stare at her tiny pale hand and multicolored fingernails filed into claws.

“Yeah, uh, don’t think he’s supposed to be smoking in here. You gonna tell him off or anything?”

“Of course not!” She bristles at the suggestion and lowers her voice. “He creeps me out, really. I’m sure if you ask nicely he’ll be good, but don't ask me for any help! Bark comes to bite, we’ll fetch his buddy. Equius doesn’t dare antagonize him, even though he could totally beat him into a pulp! I suppose he just wants to treat all his customers well, since he’s supernice and all, yannow?”

Well, you guess you’ll just have to hope things turn out okay. You steel your nerves, smooth your hair, and plop yourself in the seat next to him.

“Honk,” he addresses you serenely, wiping his hands in his oversized black t-shirt and sticking his joint in his pocket. Its awful stench mixes with that of burning fabric, and you really appreciate the years of training yourself not to recoil backward. _Not like this guy would be offended anyway_ , you imagine.

“’Sup. The name’s Dave. I’m looking for somebody in the GFD, was wondering if you know of him.” You extend your good hand, because that’s what you do when you meet new people, right?

He makes a fist with the thumb sticking out and plants it on your palm. (Apparently not.) You stare at your joined hands quizzically.

“Gobblebeast.” He has an astonished sort of grin now, like he’s having a eureka moment. His breath smells unlike any other odor you’ve ever encountered in your entire life, except maybe that dog vomit from earlier. What the fuck is rolled up in that thing?

“Uh. You mean a turkey? Yeah, that’s cool. Turkeys are hella sick, bro.” Out of the corner of your eye you see Nepeta clap a hand over her mouth, though you can’t tell if she’s gasping or giggling.

“Call me Gamzee,” he says at the speed of a snail. “Now, what kinda motherfuckin’ business are we all up in today?”

Alright, not a bad start. You clear your throat. “Well, uh, I was hoping you could help me locate somebody. Somebody who’d knock your socks off soon as you saw him, that sort of somebody.” Now it’s your turn to withdraw your hand and slap it over your mouth. Where are these words coming from?

“Seems we got a significant motherfucker on our hands,” he responds blandly, his words blending together. “What’s the name of our very important brother here?”

“John Egbert,” you say all too quickly, and hearing that name escape from your own mouth gives you heart palpitations. The amount of cheese seeping from every orifice in your body is bordering dangerously unironic levels. You imagine Nepeta would be having a field day behind the counter if she knew what your body was doing to you right now.

But Gamzee doesn’t bat an eyelash and emits a low rumble, which you belatedly realize is a very long _“Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”_ You want to twiddle your fingers while you wait, but somehow he’s staring you straight in the eye through your shades and it’s really unnerving.

“Oh, oh, I got somethin’ for ya, motherfucker,” he says in a slow sort of excitement. You don’t realize how tightly you are clenching your palms until he utters an undecipherable set of syllables: “ _Kaaaar_ kaaaat _Vaaaayn_ tussss.”

“Sorry, what?” Your hands uncurl in confusion. Is that how they name street addresses in the GFD or something? You think of Jake _English_ , and you think maybe it’s a codeword to get into some sort of Emrallt hideout—ah fuck, what the hell are you getting yourself into?

He carefully articulates the phrase again for you, doing his best not to slur: “ _Kar_ -kat _Van_ -tas.” He stares thoughtfully at you, before adding more helpfully, “My motherfuckin’ bestest bro in all the G-fuckin’-D.”

Oh. It’s a name. You totally knew that, yeah, you just had some extra ear fluff or something. …You feel like foreign names are abnormally frequent around these parts, though you suppose it correlates with the high influx of people from all over trekking through Terranos City, with many settling down to lay the foundations for new beginnings with their families. You still marvel over the fact that you’re the only Dave you know. ( _Although_ , you remind yourself, _you don’t really know of many people outside of your household anyway._ )

“He gets his motherfuckin’ think on at that bitchin’ prep school down from the holy fuckin’ church with his bro John Egbert,” he continues, “but Karkat ain’t no motherfuckin’ preppy-ass prep or any sorta shit like that, yannow what I mean? He still hangs out with someone like me, yannow?”

“Yeah, man, gotcha, course he isn’t,” you say politely. _Neither is John_ , you think to yourself before mentally slapping yourself. For all you know John Egbert could be, like, the half-sibling of the heir to some giant-ass baking corporation or something. Each hitman has their own life of adventure to live during the daytime after all, and you like to tell yourself that you are no different.

“So I’ll tell ya what, buddy, I’ll let the motherfuckin’ best friend know you’re lookin’ for this John Egbert motherfucker, and maybe y’all can arrange yourselves for a bright and sunny meeting sometime?” He looks pleased with himself, and you are certainly more delighted than not. It shows on your face with a tiny uplift of the right side of your mouth.

“Alright, thanks a lot, dude,” you gingerly extend a hand. “I’ll let him know you referred me. The name’s Gam… Gan… Ganymede?” Oops. Then again, with all the strange names floating around, you figure you’re probably halfway there with pronunciation.

“Gamzee Makara,” he proclaims with a little extra drawl to it. He reaches for your hand.

Makara?

He notices your hand hesitant for less than a second, and his eyes narrow. For someone who appears to be perpetually blitzed, he is incredibly perceptive.

“One of your gangbuddies tried to kill me last night,” you explain casually, but your heart is beginning to race, for more reasons than one. If Bro finds out you actually got into a fight, and with another Makara… hold on, first of all, you left the apartment—

“I ain’t one of them motherfuckers; you’re just gettin’ your FUCKIN’ MISTAKE ON,” he growls. He slowly rises to his feet, and suddenly he is an intimidating, lanky beast stretching nearly two meters in height. His easygoing demeanor has vanished, and you are legitimately frightened for your life.

“Alright, dude, ‘m sorry, it was a misunderstanding,” you say, holding your hands up in defense.

This turns out to be an awful idea when he fucking _roars_ and grabs your wrists. You let out a very unmanly, forget un-Strider-ly, yelp as he crushes the splint around your twisted wrist and seems intent on doing the same to your noodly arms. Nepeta shrieks when hears the ruckus and freezes like a deer in headlights when she sees Gamzee now pinning you to the floor. You want to scream at her to help you or to fetch Equius, but from her visible shaking you think maybe this isn’t the first time this has happened. Gamzee grabs a chair and raises it, ready to beat you into oblivion. You are so screwed.

Two cries ring out simultaneously: “Gamzee, no!” “Gamzee Makara, stop that at once!”

The three of you swivel your heads toward the voices. You recognize Equius Zahhak, a powerful, looming figure who is even more outrageously jacked than your brother. He has the kind of face you have to get used to looking at, what with the greasy, unkempt hair and the cracked shades and teeth. He’s wearing a simple black tank top, his huge brown arms slathered with black machine oil and shiny sweat. He maintains a very stern appearance, but you notice his entire body shaking ever so slightly. It seems everyone’s afraid to confront this clownish nightmare breathing down your neck at the moment.

Well, except for the figure next to him, with an ungelled mohawk and wearing a simple red tie and a dark brown vest similar in tone to his skin. He stands in an unnaturally erect position, until you notice his robotic legs poking out from his corduroys. His posture must come from unavoidable practice in perfectly balancing upon his metal feet, you realize. His upper body shows vestiges of once being quite built, though honestly you can’t even imagine this guy working out, biomechanical legs or not.

“Gamzee, release that, uh, young man, this instant!” His halting way of speaking drastically reduces his persuasiveness and you would totally find it unironically adorable if you weren’t currently in danger of getting brutally mauled. Gamzee snarls and grudgingly lets go—and then grabs you by the shirt and lifts you with breakneck speed off the floor.

“You see this bitch-ass motherfucker here, Tavbro?” he seethes, shaking you like a rag doll. At this point any attempt to fight back would probably result in more bodily injuries.

“I see him,” Tavbro says patiently. He is literally the only person not quivering in the room. Meanwhile Equius appears to be cowering, though you’re certain he could match evenly with Gamzee.

“HE THINKS I’M JUST AS FUCKIN’ AWFUL AS MY GOOD-FOR-NOTHIN’ SHIT-FOR-BRAINS FATHER!” he suddenly bellows, and then he quiets down again. “He thinks I ain’t motherfuckin’ changed from the rest of the syndicate.” _Someone’s got serious family issues_ , you think woefully to yourself.

“Woah, Gamzee, that’s kind of a really big, uh, assumption to make, about someone you don’t know,” Tavbro replies, carefully approaching him. “We all know you’re, uh, different from your gang, in fact I’m sure you’re more similar to, uh, this guy here.”

“The fuck I have in common with this rampaging asshole?” you blurt out, and subsequently you find yourself shrinking away from Gamzee’s inhuman snarling. You and your big fuckin’ mouth.

“You’re both, uh, wearing Supras,” Tavbro says matter-of-factly, and both of you glance down at your feet instinctively, as if noticing for the first time what you’re wearing. “And you’re both being stupid. Gamzee, uh, put him down already. Go smoke your joint and chillax, or something.”

Tavbro pries Gamzee’s fingers from your shirt one-by-one, a process that only takes exactly half a minute but feels excruciatingly slow as his deadpan gaze bores holes through your shades, until you are finally released and your feet touch solid ground again. Meanwhile Equius hesitantly offers a lighter for Gamzee, something which strikes you as particularly odd since Equius is usually so meticulous about his shop environment and customers’ health. Nepeta expertly re-splints and swaddles your wrist, then leaps back behind the counter. You don’t even have time to thank her; she’s that terrified you guess.

As Gamzee takes a long drag Tavbro turns to you. “Sorry about Gamzee, he can be pretty, uh, volatile at times,” he says meekly. “I’m Tavros Nitram, his, uh, business partner. And you are…?”

Oh whoops, so that’s his name. “Dave Strider. Nice t’meetcha Tav; you’re a pretty cool kid.”

“Yeah, I know.” The kid doesn’t even miss a beat, and you raise both eyebrows to express how impressed you are. “I bet you are too, huh?”

“Thanks, Tavbro. ‘ros. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. People call me all sorts of things.”

“Ahem,” Equius rumbles. “My apologies for interrupting, Tavros and Dave, but it is necessary to pay for today’s expenses before you leave…”

“One moneyed miracle, comin’ right up,” Gamzee butts in, exhaling what smells like (and probably is some lesser form of) poisonous gas. Equius grimaces and you crinkle your nose, but Tavros doesn’t even flinch—now that’s pretty admirable. But what sends shivers down your spine is how relaxed and out-of-it Gamzee suddenly appears. You think back to your Bro, detached and aloof, and you wonder if that apathy, through practice or by nature, is the true mark of a cold-blooded killer.

While Gamzee searches his voluminous polka-dotted pants to scrounge up some cash, you turn back to Tavros. “I’m kinda curious about this whole setup,” you say, if only to break the awkward silence, “like, how did you wind up with this kinda ex-gangster? You seem like a sweet li’l kid.”

“Uh, no, I bet I’m about as old as you, if not older,” Tavros furrows his brows. “And I’m not, uh, sweet. If not for what happened—“ he taps his metal legs and your stomach churns slightly “—I’d be just as, uh, badass as Gamzee, but I can’t do a lot of, uh, intense things with these legs right now.”

“What kinda accident tore off your legs?” you wonder aloud. “Car crash? Explosives? Saving a damsel in distress? Work-related? All of these?”

“Just a, uh, procedural accident,” he says with forced banality. “I work in operations now. I gather, uh, data, manage transactions, and monitor Gamzee’s lines of action so that, the same doesn’t happen to him. And, I help him out on the field, when these legs aren’t, well, feeling so bad.”

“So you and Gamzee are like partners in crime.” You mean it lightheartedly, but he winces at the remark.

“I-it’s not, crime, per se,” he says, slightly disgruntled. “And don’t call it mercenary, either, if you were going to, uh, say that. We do things for, the good of the District, and for ourselves.”

Something like a microscopic black hole feels like it’s slowly eating away at your gut. “Hold on a sec, Tav, I have no fuckin’ clue what you’re going on about.”

“And it ain’t nothin’ important,” Gamzee swoops in lazily, having completed his transaction, and Tavros nods earnestly. “I’ll keep my honest-to-fuckin’-goodness word and let Karbro know up the what is fuck, but if you dare lay a motherfuckin’ finger on ‘im I’ll tear you into a million fucking pieces and you’ll need more ‘n a miracle to put you back together, more ‘n even big ol’ Equius.” He grins a lazy grin full of fangs and weed at you, and a shiver runs down your spine because you know he isn’t exaggerating.

“Sounds good, dude…” your voice trails off as Gamzee and Tavros exit. While leaving Tavros asks what kind of business you have with Gamzee and Karkat, and Gamzee replies you’re looking for a John Egbert. You can almost hear the crinkle in Tavros’s nose and the scrunching of his eyebrows as he voices his distaste of the carrier of that name, and you decide Tavros is much more suspicious than he seems.

When the door closes, rattling the frame of the shop front, Nepeta leaps back onto the counter, and you turn back and stare at her and Equius. “Okay, what just happened? Who are those two people? What was Tavros even talking about?”

“Tavros and Gamzee are hitmen,” Equius replies simply, silently regaining his composure and gently rubbing Nepeta’s back. “Tavros lost his legs during a failed mission in the Gold Fortune District some years ago.”

“What the fuck?” _Hitmen, like you and your brother?_ you want to ask.

“You will not use such obscene language in this building,” Equius reprimands sternly, and he retreats into the back of the shop to mop up the copious amount of sweat dribbling down his face.

“Oh come on, what about…” you begin, but the back door slams shut in your face.

Nepeta giggles at you, black curls bouncing around her face. “You really do live in a cave! We service everybody and everybody services us.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

She stretches across the counter and adjusts her bowtie, unsoiled and perfectly white. “C’mon, Dave, you’ve been coming to this automechanic shop for years. We don’t discriminate between customers, hitmen or civilians, as long as they can give us a little information in addition to the money. It’s like playing secret agent, except in real life!”

“Augh, why is everybody being so goddamn ambiguous?” You shove your hands in your pockets and pull up a chair by Nepeta. “So are you saying you and Equius are… hitmen, too?”

“That’s rrright!” she exclaims, thrusting all limbs in the air. “Doing robotics and mechanical stuff is just a hobby of Equius’s, and it brings in a little extra money when the assignments are few. Isn’t it the same with Mister Dirk?”

“Wait, how did you know—“ you stop and groan when you realize how dumb of a question that is. Nepeta rolls her eyes and drapes the ends of her coat over your head.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Equius interrupts as he reemerges, newly dried and freshened, “where is Dirk, anyway? I think this may be the first time I’ve seen you not tagging along with him.”

Nepeta snickers some more but inwardly you cringe, though you tell yourself it’s because you hadn’t thought up a reasonable explanation for his absence. So you just shrug, focusing your gaze on an imaginary speck on the floor.

“You’re not here to pick up or deliver anything, then?” He wipes his hands and goes behind the counter, scribbling on the papers she’s not lying upon. “Shame, he’s a great mechanic, of which I’m sure you’re aware. If he didn’t spend so much time fiddling with those ridiculous robots and cavorting at those libertine nightclubs, then he could produce quite sizable profits. It is additionally so unfortunate that both he and my cousin Horuss have such strange interests in… undeniably lewd objects…”

You want to protest and defend your brother, but Nepeta sticks her tongue out and shakes her head. Equius has always been fairly conservative, and you both when know it’s not worth arguing.

“In any case, send him my regards and tell him to come by sometime,” he continues. “He’s become dreadfully busy with his nighttime business, and I’ve been wondering if something’s up with the employers.” At this point you have no idea if he’s referring to Bro’s porn site or his professional hitman work and you decide not to bother inquiring further, ending the chat with the practiced lie “Will do.”

And then you’re back on the streets, Nepeta waving goodbye as the door swings shut behind you. You stare up at the smoggy sky like a lonely anime protagonist, though you are surrounded only by run-down concrete buildings a few stories tall with faded ads and bright graffiti. You’ve only ever been to the Gold Fortune District at night, but you know it’s conversely filled with massive skyscrapers made of glass and light. Perhaps one of those buildings houses a certain boy in blue…

In any case, now you’ve got yourself a date with some motherfuckin’ best bro named Karkat Vantas, the time and location of which you don’t even know, and since you’re out of the apartment you have this overwhelming need to finally just _explore_ the entire goddamn Borough.

Where do you go next?

> Explore Veilchen Borough.

> Meet Karkat Vantas.

> Go home.


	4. In Which Dave Enjoys More Family Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is chapter four! kinda long this time. next one will be more of a breather, at least for me.
> 
> maybe i should get a tumblr again??? for now, if you have any comments or questions, just let me know here!
> 
> thanks for reading, everyone.

Your name is Dave Strider, you are sitting back on the kitchen table (at least with some clothes this time), and you are being berated by one very irate Dirk Strider, otherwise known as Bro. You smell like flowery perfume and sweat. A pink Smuppet eyes you idly from its roost atop the refrigerator.

Hold on, back the fuck up. Let’s rewind to when you left the Zahhak Autoshop.

**> Explore Veilchen Borough**

You have just exited the shop and are intent on exploring the Veilchen Borough. Glancing left and right, the streets all look the same—run down stores covered in graffiti, seedy apartment buildings towering overhead, the purple and gold propaganda posters of politicians whose names or campaigns nobody could care less about. Every turn of the corner reveals a new block that’s similar but just slightly unique in appearance and shop selection. You consider taking the bus to nowhere in particular, but you have neither the cash nor the time to find your way back. But, the possibilities are infinite!

So you tell yourself, but it’s getting a bit disheartening, walking along the sidewalk, seeing the same alleyways repeat themselves over and over. Also, you are quite lost. This is the third time you’ve passed that tobacco store, and you can’t help but increasingly feel like the raucous laughs of the crows are directed toward your own ineptitude. You can’t even take a breather without smelling something funky. Now you remember why you were never really invested in getting out of the apartment.

**> Meet Karkat Vantas**

Yes, because you clearly know your way around the place. But no worries—the Gold Fortune District with its gleaming skyscrapers and blinding wealth should be no problem to spot, right?

You attempt to parkour up the side of a building. When you reach for a windowsill you end up tumbling back onto the concrete, curled up in pain and clutching your bad wrist. You give yourself a moment, then hoist yourself with one hand onto a fire escape and begrudgingly flashstep all the way up to the roof. Across seas of gray and more gray, you see across the distance… more gray. A few stories higher and you’re sure you’d be choking on smog. How big is the Borough anyway?

You catch the glint of something in the corner of your eye. You turn your head but suddenly everything feels slowed down, feels like everything’s in slow-motion, and you struggle to crane your neck around faster, but then there it is, you see it, a golden tube of lipstick, rocketing through the air, coming right at you—

The rifle bullet just barely grazes past your cheek when everything speeds up back to normal and you’re flying down the fire escape one floor level at a time. You can’t tuck and roll with your sprained wrist, so you grit your teeth and jump off. Your sneakers hit the pavement and pain shoots up your ankles, and you let it sink in for just a second and then you’re off, dashing through the streets of the Borough as fast as you can. A shout rings out behind you, but you don’t think it’s calling for you.

Yet even as you push your body to its limits, you think you see dark blurs on either side of you, familiar purple and black hues, camouflaging with the borough’s emblematic colors. How could anyone match your speed? Could they possibly have been dispatched by Bro to keep tabs on you, and they realized you were planning on leaving for the GFD? Or what if they’re moving independently of him and are really out to get you? Either way Bro would really be fucking upset at you if anything happened…

**> Go home.**

You bet your stupid ass you are going home! But… how do you get there? Shitfuck. God, you really hate Bro right now for never really letting you out on your own. Not like you had much to go looking for prior to today. But still, every dog has to be let off its leash sometime!

Two ladies materialize on either side of you, snapping you out of your internal discourse. You don’t catch their faces but glimpse their platinum blonde hair. The skinny one in pink’s got a sicknasty blue rifle, while the plump purple one has… a lavender violin? They’re both panting quite a bit more than you are. You still owe eternal gratitude to Bro for forcing your stamina levels through the roof.

“Davey, wait up—“ the pink one begins. Davey?! Nope, you are noping out of there. Bye, ladies.

You don’t take another step when something wraps itself around your ankle, and you _whump_ onto the concrete, again. This time it’s flat on your stomach so you spare your poor wrist, but it sure hurts a lot more than a belly flop onto the futon at home. You are getting rather beat up rather quickly.

“Gotcha.” The purple one walks to your side and unwraps the head of her violin from your ankle, letting the cord hiss back into the body of the instrument. You’re about to clamber away and try to escape again, but a boot rests upon your back and you freeze. _This is the end, isn’t it_ —

“Roxy, I told you it was a shitty idea to fire a bullet at him to say hello. Who even does that?”

“Girl, you know _I_ do. Plus you know I’d never hurt a friend, especially not with my impeccable aim. …Don’t look at me like that! What, has nobody ever greeted you like that before?”

“No.”

“Not even me?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, Rose, maybe you just gotta, yannow, put yourself out there more often—“

“Sorry, could y’all, like, let me back up? I’m starting to suffocate down here. Veilchen’s real grody, if you couldn’t tell.”

“Aw shit, sorry, Davey! Forgot you were even down there, haha. Up you go.”

The pair lifts you up from the pavement. The purple one takes note of your wrist and holds your hand and elbow instead. Suddenly the pink one squeals and squeezes you tight, and you almost see stars before she lets you go.

“Wow, uh, alright, now… who are y’all again?” Looking them in the eyes, you see first of all that their eyes match their apparel curiously well, similar to your own eyes. Most of the hitmen you’ve encountered had more typical brown or blue eyes, maybe green once in a while. But purple and pink?

The pink one looks disgruntled. “Wait, are you being serious, Davey? You don’t remember us?” You shake your head. When she still appears slightly distraught, you shake more emphatically. You forget most humans haven’t filed down their more expressive actions to be as subtle as possible.

“I barely remember him myself, to be honest,” says the purple one. She extends a hand, which you gingerly take, momentarily unsure what to do with it. “I’m Rose. We meet again, apparently.”

“And I’m Roxy!” Roxy nearly shouts, grabbing your other hand and shaking it furiously, as if to jog your memory. “Me and Di-Stri go waaaay back! In fact we were just on our way to visit! It’s been, like, forever since we hung out! You were soooo small back then too!!”

You all begin heading back to your place then, though you try as discreetly as you can to let Roxy lead the way back. Even though she’s talking your ears off she seems to know exactly where she’s going.

“What were you doing out there?” asks Rose. “I heard you don’t get out much.”

You stuff your hands as far into your pockets as you can, which is not very far. “Uh, I was gonna go to the Gold Fortune District, but then someone happened to fire a bullet at me.”

 “You were? To tell you the truth, we followed you for a few blocks before Roxy… ahem, well, but you didn’t really seem like you knew you were going.”

“Okay, fine, I don’t actually know my way around the Borough. Big deal, huh. Stupid Dave doesn’t even know the area where he lives. Can’t even go on his date with Karkat Vantas because he has no fucking clue where the bougie people all live.” You roll your eyes, mostly at yourself at this point.

Rose turns wide-eyed toward you. “You’re dating Karkat?”

“You know who Karkat Vantas is?” Your heartbeat quickens. Could Rose possibly help…?

“Is this a blind date?”

“No!” You skitter to the side like a startled crow. Roxy doesn’t even notice and trudges onward, so you hurriedly skip back to Rose’s side. “I just need to talk to him about something. We’re not bros yet, but we’re gonna be. It’s gonna be a rad bromance. I just… need to, like, find him first. Wherever the fuck that orphanage is. And I need to tell him I exist. You know the drill. Friend-making and all that jazz.”

Rose simply shrugs an _okay_ , and you all keep walking. Bro would’ve grilled you to the bone until your flesh was all seared off and you had nothing left but the charred words you were trying to hide.

You consider for a moment, then lean in to whisper in Rose’s ear as uncreepily as you can manage. “Rose… if Roxy is close with Bro, then you can’t tell her about me going to the orphanage though. I don’t want to risk him finding out somehow. But I actually have no idea where the hell it is.”

“Hm. Okay, sure.” She seems to have assessed the situation rather quickly, for which you’re grateful. The less questions the better. “So what you should probably do is—“

“We’re here!” Roxy announces in your place when you find yourself at the dingy apartment complex you call home. The girls look at you expectantly, and you realize you’re supposed to let them in.

“Uh, I kinda, didn’t go out the front door. Because. Well. I’m not supposed to be out here?”

Roxy sighs, her face wearing something other than a smile for the first time all day. “Dirk still doesn’t let you out on your own, huh? This long, and you’re this big already, like, I keep telling him, it’s not good for you…” Rose nudges her, and she shakes her hands and head rapidly. “Wha, I mean, haha, silly Davey! What, did you jump out the window or something? Haha… Don’t tell me you actually did…”

You swallow your feelings and lead them up the fire escape. They both leap through the window with gracile motions, even with weapons in hand, and you figure it’s not even worth asking about the rifle and violin-lasso-chain thing. Probably just your luck that everyone you run into is a hitman.

“Looks just like the way it’s always been!” Roxy announces, leaning her rifle against the wall by the door. “Swords still in the fridge?”

“Yep,” you say, smirking for a moment. Is this what it’s like having friends or relatives over?

Rose glances around before shedding her shoes and violin by the door and settling on the patched up couch by the wall. “I feel I’m starting to have some recollections about this apartment.”

You join her on the couch, careful not to sit too close. “Yeah? You frequent shitty solitary confinement chambers often then?”

“My favorite pastime is memorizing the dead-eyed expressions of prisoners slowly going insane.” She stares at you with a perfectly neutral expression. It eerily resembles Bro’s, and it sends a shiver down your spine. You look away, but are unsure where to direct your view.

“Here, Davey, as an apology for earlier.” Roxy is suddenly right in your face, plastering a band-aid onto your cheek. You retroactively feel the sting of the bullet against your skin.

“Thanks…?” You bring your hand to your cheek, realizing your face is all hot. Roxy grins widely at you, while Rose’s face assumes a more normal kind of smile.

At that moment you hear the sound of metal scraping against the door. Instinctively you go stock still. The door opens, and Roxy goes flying toward the entrance.

“Dirkypoo! It’s been _so long_!” Roxy throws herself onto Bro, and just like you he freezes up in shock. He makes eye contact with you across the room through one pair of shades into another, and you shrug at him. Rose waves a languid hello. Only then does he relax and, to your surprise, fully embrace Roxy back. In fact, he even lifts her off the ground, spins her in a half-circle, and deposits her neatly back on the ground, Roxy giggling all the while.

There are strange expressions on both Strider faces; his is one of unpracticed joy, eyebrows raised uncharacteristically high and mouth sporting an unnaturally real smile. When he sets her down he’s still beaming so brightly, even while Roxy unleashes upon him a torrent of personal news and updates from the past few years. With Roxy’s insistence Dirk actually begin to recount some of your past missions and stories of other hitmen, even though he often keeps those secret from you.

Yours, on the other hand… Rose looks at you curiously. Is it envy? You’ve always envied your brother—tall, cool, handsome, but also so smart, on the streets and in his robotics workshop. He’s strong, he’s fast, he knows his way around Terranos and around conversations, knows swordfighting and verbal arguing inside and out. But this feels different. This strange woman, who invaded your home simply because she felt like it, who fucking _shot_ at you just earlier, who gets greeted like this by Bro…

“Jealous?” asks Rose.

“Wha—“ you nearly fall off your seat. “Are you a fucking mind reader or something? Not cool, yo. Shouldn’t you, like, ask for permission first at least—“

“I don’t know if anyone has ever informed you of this before, but it seems you tend to mutter bits of your internal monologue out loud. You were also making quite a curious face.” Rose smiles in a way that makes your skin crawl, and you feel your body heat up. “Sorry, but I couldn’t help but guess at what you were trying to conceptualize.”

“Okay, well, I didn’t ask for it, okay?” You throw the words out of your burning face. “And just because I say stuff out loud doesn’t mean my thoughts are suddenly in the public domain. I can monologue for you my own copyright terms and agreements if you want. You wanna hear?”

“No, thank you. I know a wannabe lawyer you might like to speak with about this, though.”

“Fuck you,” you say out of having nothing better to say. You can’t tell if you like or hate this person. But she’s infinitely more interactive than a monosyllabic crow, or one of Bro’s weird robots.

Her smile changes into something more human. “That phrase reminds me of something important—the orphanage. It’s hard to get around the Gold Fortune District without a car or subway pass. But I have a friend who works there who can help you out.”

You smile sadly to yourself. Friend, huh? You think of how Bro picked up and spun Roxy just earlier. Rose continues speaking over your thoughts.

“Kanaya will help you. She knows Karkat very well.”

“Cool,” you reply, and the two of you just look at each other for a moment. Do you say thank you? Do you ask what Kanaya’s like? Do you wonder out loud how they met?

Roxy strides over, and out of the corner of your eye you see Bro gliding into the kitchen, presumably to check up on his poor Smuppets. “Seems like you two are getting along well, huh?”

“We’ve decided on becoming mortal enemies,” Rose replies, not even glancing over at you. “If you’re quiet enough, you can hear Dave composing sonnets of hatred and malice under his breath.”

“Oh, shut up, Rose,” you shrink away from their gazes. But then you venture, “You’re making it too difficult to hear myself in up here. Trynna rhyme ‘Rose can go jump in a sewer’ is hard, right, Roxy?”

She taps at her chin, thinking for a moment. “How about, Rosie’s like a pile of manure?”

Rose grabs her violin, plucks a few notes, and adds, “But she is most definitely not an evildoer.”

“Rose Lalonde, your lies are almost as big as your big butt!” Roxy shrieks, and starts tickling her—and you??? You try to curl into a ball but it’s too much, now you’re on the floor, and even when she stops you guess laughter really is contagious because you’re all clutching your sides and making weird noises, and what the fuck you actually are laughing. As tears well up in the corner of your eyes you inexplicably think: It’s been a while, huh?

A while since… what?

You’re all sitting there, gasping and occasionally bursting into another short giggle fit, when Bro returns with an armful of Smuppets and a martini for some odd reason in one hand. He stops when he sees you all, the residual smile on his face making you ever so slightly uncomfortable. Bro leans toward Roxy, martini extended, but then he zooms in on something and drops all the Smuppets.

His cold, stony face returns, the one you’re used to seeing. “Dave, what’s that on your face?”

Oh shit.

“Oh shit,” Roxy echoes your thoughts. “Sure would be nice if they made band-aids for people with our skin color, am I right?”

In an instant Bro is right in front of you, gripping your face so he can examine the band-aid.

You try your best to maintain your own deadpan expression. “Cut my face on a kitchen knife while trying to get out of that shitty ass duct tape trap you made.”

“You’re not that stupid, and neither am I.” He narrows his eyes at you. You gulp.

“Dirk, if I may,” Rose intercedes. Roxy is trembling slightly beside her. “When Dave let us into the apartment, Roxy startled him quite badly—she tried to hug him like she hugged you—and unfortunately Dave overreacted, spun out of control, and cut his face on something. I suspect it might have been that fruit knife on the coat rack—“

His hand gently touches your arm. Your skin tingles at the rare sensation. “Did you and Roxy change Dave’s wrist splint as well? I checked all my drawers and everything… _appeared_ … untouched.”

“Oh, that’s not…” Rose glances at you expectantly, failing to make eye contact with you through your shades. You gulp, excuseless.

“DIRK I SHOT A BULLET AT YOUR LITTLE BROTHER I’M SORRY.” You and Rose glare at Roxy, but she stares pointedly into her lap. Dirk retains his deadpan expression.

_We can still save this,_ Rose mouths at you. You nod as invisibly as possible.

“Roxy, I warned you about setting off rifles while indoors.” she scolds. “How will Dirk explain to his poor neighbors, did you think of that?”

“Well I, no, but I—“ Roxy fumbles. She might’ve caught on, but she doesn’t seem to know her way around words as well as Rose.

“Roxy. Rose. Sorry, but you’ll have to come back another time.” Bro places the martini on a small table stand by the door, using his other hand to gesture toward the exit.

“Oh, Dirk!” Roxy bursts out, tears pooling in the corner of her eyes. “I’m sorry, we did find him outside! But I know you’ve been keeping him cooped up in here all the time. He needs to—“

“Dave needs to have a conversation, with me, _alone_.”

Rose glances at Roxy and tilts her head—a silent message. Roxy rises and grabs the martini, and swings her arms around Bro. “Diiii-Striiii, I’m so _sorry_ , when can I see you next? How could I leave now?”

As Roxy whittles down Bro’s patience, Rose says quickly to you, “I’m sorry things ended this way, Dave. It was so nice to re-meet you.” Then her voice drops down to a whisper, “Just stay put for now. Kanaya will come to you. I’ll make sure of it.”

Before you can say anything, Dirk growls, “Roxy, enough of this bullshit. Both of you. _Out._ ”

Rose and Roxy grab their weapons and make a quick exit, Roxy downing the martini and sticking it neatly back on the table stand. Bro closes the door, a decibel short of slamming it. He wordlessly points to the kitchen; you dutifully plop your ass onto the table.

“Dave.” The word dangles precariously in the air, threatening to topple the conversation into one of infinite unpredictable directions. But you say nothing. He lifts his hand to his shades, but you stay still. His hand drops, as does the corners of his mouth.

He whips a butcher knife out from under one of the kitchen stools and slashes at you. You cringe and fling up your hands in fear. The knife stops, a hair’s breadth away from you, and Bro snorts.

“You went to Zahhak’s place, didn’t you?”

Your silence is affirmative.

“Of course you did. Nobody else makes even the simplest of splints out of reinforced titanium.”

Bro turns around to stick the butcher knife in a new location, and you examine your splint. The steely glint jeers at you from underneath the gauze. Just once glance and Bro could recognize the material, but he must’ve already seen and deduced its origin. Then why did he feel the need to…

“I know why you went there,” he continues, returning to you. “You were looking for John Egbert, weren’t you? Tough luck, li’l bro. Jake fixes his own pistols, and so he’d never bring John into the autoshop. And as talkative as Nepeta can be, she’ll never let the metaphorical cats out of any sort of epistemological bags…”

Did you say you were “being berated” earlier? Sorry, it’s more just being lectured and talked at for a solid twenty minutes or so. But it still sucks, so you tune Bro out and think about what Rose said.

_Kanaya will help you. She knows Karkat very well._

“Basically, you’re stuck, and you’re wrong. I should have never told you his name. What was I thinking? That was my fault, so I’ll let you off easy this time. But next time, I’m gonna…”

_It’s hard to get around the Gold Fortune District without a car or a subway pass… Just stay put for now. Kanaya will come for you._ So basically, you’re stuck, but you didn’t fail completely.

“…there’s another mission lined up for us but this time, Dave, I won’t let you come You stay put, okay?...” He bangs a fist on the table, startling you out of your thoughts. “Am I fucking clear, Dave?”

“Clear as fuck, Bro. Will do. This tush ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Good.” He readjusts his shades and moves to exit the kitchen. “And you better not be lying. But if you are, then I will find out. And when I do—“

“God dammit, Bro, go jack off to robot porn or something. I get it.” You slide off the counter and try to push past him. He doesn’t budge from the entryway and you fear an oncoming strife session.

Instead, his perturbed frown flips into a vaguely amused smile. “Takes one to know one, buddy.”

You are about to tear your hair out. “Fuck you,” is all you can manage.

“You’ll have to get in line for that,” he smirks. His calloused hand courses briefly through your hair, barely glancing off your scalp, and then he’s disappeared into his room.

“Augh!!” you yell at his door just as it shuts. You stand there waiting, like a small child. He doesn’t come out after two minutes and fifty-nine seconds, so you duly return to your own room.

Stay put, huh? You trust Rose—you have to. You don’t know how long you’ll have to wait, but if it means finally making it out of the Borough; if it means meeting Kanaya, and then Karkat, and then your mystery boy; if it means making Bro happy, or at least less mad at you… then you guess that’s all you can do for now.

And so you wait.


	5. In Which the Author Takes a Breather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fifth chapter! we have come so far. it was really nice to write and actually ended up taking a different path from what i had originally intended in my outline. either way i hope you like it!
> 
> also... i made a tumblr? the url is shishamidaiji, which basically is like, 'what's up' in taiwanese hokkien. it's kinda ugly right now but like... shrug. i guess feel free to ask questions and stuff on there if it's more comfortable for you!

One Sunday morning five years ago, you woke up and found Bro lying still on the couch.

Back then the couch was still relatively unbloodied and plain-smelling. You and Bro had lugged it up the four flights of stairs to your apartment after he sighted it, abandoned on the streets in the GFD. It was a leathery brown sort of color—you don’t quite recall its original hue anymore—but that morning you saw a darker, wetter spot underneath your brother’s body that you didn’t remember being there.

“Bro?” you ventured. He didn’t respond, didn’t move an inch. Your stomach began to churn.

“Bro?” you tried again, louder this time. After another moment’s silence you crept forward, kneeled by his side. You gently lifted his shades off—the arms were coated in a crusty layer of something you did not want to think about—and set them on the small side table by the door. His eyes did not open, but at this range you were able to see his chest rising and falling like waves atop a lake, the sound of his breathing barely registering in your mind.

When you took off your own shades, you were forced to confirm the existence of the pool of blood soaked into the couch, rather than an odd shadow or cushion depression. You touched a finger to it, realized it was still moist, recoiled, felt tears in the corners of your eyes. You lifted his black shirt but drew back when you saw the deep crimson gash all along the right side of his torso, still open and heaving. Then you began to cry, the short, throbbing whimpers coursing through your whole body.

“…D…ave…” It was more of a choking sound, a breeze caught between the gnarled branches of a dead tree, than a pained whisper passing through his lips. He still didn’t open his eyes.

“Are you dying?” you uttered between sobs, laying your head on his shoulder. Your tears wet his shirt, and you wished so hard for them to wash away his wounds like the unicorns in Bro’s old movies.

He said nothing, which only made you cry harder. You heard his breathing slow more, and though you began shaking him, calling his name again and again, he became unresponsive once more.

“Bro… don’t leave me…” you bury your face into his neck. “I’m sorry I failed all my dumbass classes… I’m sorry I never wanted to help test your shitty robots… I’m sorry I’m always too fucking lazy to go buy the groceries when it’s my turn… I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do…”

A knock on the door. “Di-Stri? Davey?” a muffled voice called from outside.

You tried to ignore it, tried to shield Bro’s body, when after ten long minutes of silence two people instead entered through the fire escape.

“Hey, it’s okay, li’l guy. We’re his friends,” a voice whispered in your ear, a soft hand stroking your hair. “He’ll be fine. But you gotta let Janey take a look at his injuries so she can save him, okay?”

You wiped your eyes and looked up at the two strangers: a lady in pink with platinum blonde hair, and another lady in cyan with a black bob and red glasses. You let them break your hold on Bro, and the cyan lady took your place by his side. She lifted his shirt, did not pull back like you, and sighed.

“It’s shallow, so we don’t have to worry about tetanus so much, but obviously it’s had trouble closing on its own. We’re going to have to fix him up right here if we want everything to be all fine and dandy.” She turned to you, about to speak, but instead instinctively thumbed off another flurry of tears.

“Sorry I… I’m so useless…” you blubbered into her palm.

She pulled you into a tight hug, letting your head rest upon her shoulder. “Oh dear… You’re not useless at all, David… David or Dave?... Well, there’s one way you can help.”

You looked up at her, eyes too puffy to see her features clearly, and sniffled.

“Can you bring me Dirk’s sewing kit? And a clean, wetted towel that you don’t need anymore?”

You flew into the kitchen, grabbing a random towel and dousing it with sink water. Then you sprinted into Bro’s room, dove into all his drawers until you found his treasured secondhand sewing kit, and brought everything to the cyan lady. When you returned, they had managed to tear his shirt away from his body, revealing the extent of his gaping laceration.

“What’s your favorite color, Dave?” she asked, opening the kit and examining the needle sizes. The pink lady had been instructed to press either side of his wound together, but it only seemed to squeeze out more blood everywhere. You felt you were about to vomit, but you held on for Bro.

“Red,” you managed to choke out, trying to not think of his blood. “But Bro likes orange.”

“That’s fine. We can fix him up with a red thread then, okay? That way, while his injury’s healing, he’ll think of you. But we have to do this as quickly as we can.”

The next forty minutes was the first time you felt so keenly aware of the seconds passing, the ticking of the clock in your room reverberating through your body. You watched as she painstakingly stitched closed Bro’s wound, and as the delicate red silk became thick with blood and tissue. You were tasked with wiping Bro’s forehead, using the towel to keep his burning scalp cool and pulling out the chunks of dried blood from his hair. Sometimes the needle would slip or become stuck in the layers of blood and skin, followed by a hiss of fear from the cyan lady and reassurance from the pink lady. But you couldn’t help but tremble a bit each time, urging them to push forward.

At last, they finished the suture. The red thread ran in neat crisscrosses from the top of his shoulder, over his right pectoral, across his ribs, toward his navel, and back. Your head ached from the clockwork pulsing you felt every second. The spindle was bare, the browned needle at its side.

The two ladies pushed away from the couch and sat on the floor, releasing their tension and wiping off their sweat. The cyan lady’s clothes were stained with red from leaning against the couch, while the pink lady’s hands were completely caked with rusting blood. They looked each other up and down, and began to giggle.

“How are we gonna leave this apartment like this? We look like we just butchered somebody.”

“But that’s in our job description, right? They can’t arrest us for that. Or anything, really.”

“Worse comes to worst, we kill the police too.”

They were about to continue, but froze when they caught sight of you staring in horror. Then the pink one keeled over in laughter, while the cyan one dashed into the kitchen to wash her hands.

The shock passed over you, and you grabbed some nondescript t-shirts from your closet for them to change into. The cyan one accepted graciously, face lit up in embarrassment as she hurried into the bathroom to change. The pink one waved you away with her drying hands, drawling, “Don’t worry about it, Davey, no one’s gonna question this girl when she’s out on the streets!”

After the cyan lady reemerged in white and the pink lady settled down, their voices dropped to hushed murmurs as they discussed things you didn’t understand—wondering if someone named Jake would be physically and mentally intact, of a car cat and whether a blood transfusion was possible.

“What do I do now?” you interrupted, partially because Bro still wasn’t moving, and partially because you didn’t want to be left out. The ticking in your head was fading, but you couldn’t shake from your head the insignificant fact that they had been chatting for eleven minutes on the dot. It made everything feel slower, made it seem like everything had slowed down, and you were beginning to feel the increasing urgency to optimize your own time.

“Sorry, Davey! Forgot aboutcha for a second there, lol,” the pink one responded. “Think we’ve overstayed our welcome, huh, J-Croc?”

The cyan one came to your side and swept you up in another hug. This time you weren’t so receptive, so she awkwardly released you. “We think Dirk will be okay. Just make sure he rests and gets some food in him, no matter what he may insist. Which, I know is hard, but at least try to, alright?”

“Alright…” You knew that much at least. But the one question tugging at your lips…

“Oh, Davey—sorry, I mean Dave—just one last thing… When he wakes up, don’t ask him what happened to him.” The cyan lady looked over at him, shoulders slumping in dejection. “I think he still needs to figure a lot of things out for himself, and you don’t want to push him while he’s in that state.”

“Oh… yeah, sure. Got it.” You bit back the complaints and stuffed your hands in your pockets. They themselves may not have known what got Bro into this state either.

She put a hand on your cheek again, wiping away a stray tear you didn’t realize was there. “Thanks for understanding, Dave. When you’re older, I hope you’ll be able to help him understand himself a bit better.”

You had—still have—no idea what that means. Meanwhile the pink lady ducked into the kitchen and reemerged with a bottle of cleaning detergent and a paper towel roll.

“For the bloody footprints on the carpet and in the stairwell,” she said brightly, swishing around the contents of the container. “Don’t you worry about ‘em, buddy. We’ll take it from here.”

“You’ll be alright, Dave?” the cyan lady asked, to which you agreed hesitantly. “Again, Dirk should be fine. If he needs us when he wakes, he’ll know how to reach us. Keep an eye on him for us, okay?”

The door swung shut as you were in mid-nod, and the apartment fell silent.

 

Bro woke up a few hours later—four hours and thirteen minutes to be exact. The newly acquired skill bothered you less now that you could ignore the ceaseless ticking and pull out the number of time units when you felt like it.

You were sitting on the floor by the foot of the couch, looking for fossils in your Animal Crossing game, when you heard him inhale deeply the way a waking person does. You slammed shut your DS and crawled to his side, wrenching your eyes from the red sutures to the signs of life returning to his face.

“Dave?” he croaked, and you took his hand in both of yours. He squeezed yours gently, filling you with warmth and relief. His free hand began tracing the stitches along his torso, and he snorted softly. “If I had any reason to believe in God, this would be it. Thank God for sending those two over.”

“You okay?” you asked, realizing how dumb the question was after the last syllable left your lips. “I mean, ‘course you’re not, but I guess, how do you feel, although, I guess you also just woke up—“

“Chill. I’m alright, yo. Thanks for asking.” His eyes cracked open, the familiar orange slowly regaining their vivacity. He released his breath slowly, a mix between a sigh and a hiss of pain. He looked you over briefly, then clutched his side as he was overcome by coughs wracking his whole body. It only lasted three seconds, but any longer and you probably would’ve actually had a panic attack.

“Can you get me some water? I am literally dying here. Or, I was earlier, anyway. Just figuratively now. I am figuratively dying here.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

“…Oh come on, don’t give me that face. I’m okay, li’l bro, seriously. Just, I am really fucking thirsty right now. Can your ass get a move on to the kitchen sink, please?”

You fetched him a glass of water, and then another one, and another. After the third round he set down the cup on the floor and proceeded to stare at the ceiling. You thought you heard him whisper _Jake_ , but it could’ve just been another pained exhale.

You desperately wanted to ask him what happened out there, but decided it’d be better to heed the cyan lady’s earlier warning. So instead you balled your hands into fists and mustered your courage.

“Bro… Let me become a hitman. I want to fight with you.”

“No.” Snapped out of his thoughts, his voice was unsteady, yet unwavering. “I can’t… I won’t let anyone do this to you. I have to protect you. You’re all that I have.”

“Then let me learn how to protect you too!” The tears threatened to flow again, but you held them back. “I’m tired of being useless, and weak, and a big crybaby. Bro… I am really not about all that touchy-feely shit, but hello, dumbass, you’re all that I have too, remember?”

He turned to look at you, a breath pushed out through his nose as he struggled to pivot his neck.

“Okay,” he said softly after a brief pause. “Tomorrow morning, sunrise, we start training.”

You pulled back, staring at him wide-eyed. “Wait, Bro, your, your injuries—“

“Are you backing out already?”

“No! But—“

“No buts. The number one lesson you must learn, Dave, is that a hitman with honor never goes down, not until the mission’s completed.”

Mustering what little energy he had left, Bro shifted onto his side with the stitches, a quiet grunt the only indicator of his pain. You wanted to push him back, make him lie still, but then he reached out and ran a hand through your hair, fingers lingering against your skin. He wore the most genuine smile you could remember and his eyes shone the most vibrant shade of orange you ever saw.

“And since my mission’s to protect you, to raise you… you’ll always have me. I’ll always be fighting for you, and with you. I promise. Am I clear?”

“...Yeah. Clear as fuck, Bro.”

“Good.”

 

Five years later, you open your eyes and stare at the blank, scratched-up ceiling of your room. Did you fall asleep again? What time is it? Why does this memory keep coming back in your dreams?

You breathe in. The smell of car exhaust and streetside garbage. You think back to just a few days ago, when you stepped foot into Zahhak’s shop, and later when Roxy and Rose met up with you.

Suddenly something clicks, and you breathe out, a bit too quickly. The pink person from your memory and the pink person from a few days ago… How did it take you this long to connect the dots?

“Bro?” you call out, hoisting yourself off the bed.

“Yes, Dave?” he shouts from his room.

You take the liberty to enter his room without knocking. But now that you’re standing in his territory—bedsheets neatly made, floor completely clean of clothes or electronics, completely the opposite of your living space—you don’t quite know what to say. He remains facing away from you, crouched on the edge of his bed. You guess he’s probably tinkering with one of interactive bots, as you hear bits of stuttered words floating out amongst the crackle of static.

“Have you known…” you begin, then decide to start over. “How long have you been…”

He looks up when you stop again, and the racket from the foot of his bed ceases. “I’m not mad at you anymore, if that’s what you were wondering.”

“No, not at all! I knew that,” you reply defensively. When you don’t promptly follow that up with anything, he bends back down to tend to his invention, so you blurt out, “How did you meet Roxy?”

“Roxy?” Bro sets his tools down, and for a moment it feels the whole apartment has gone quiet. “Think we went to middle school together. So like… a decade ago? Man, I’m old.”

 _Ten years and you never bothered introducing us?_ is what you mean to ask, but instead what comes out as more of a whine than anything is, “The only person I known for at least a decade is you, Bro. I mean. I know I failed out of high school, but, like, so did you. And Roxy?”

“Roxy’s finishing up a degree at night school,” he says quickly. “She’s really smart. Definitely deserves an Ivy League education but she doesn’t want any of that stuff. Doesn’t need any of it.”

You look down at your feet, scarred both by combat and by swords falling out of the fridge. You both know Bro could have gotten into any school he wanted. But because he had to raise you…

“Dave, I know I’m not always… the best company.” Bro gingerly pats the space on the bed next to him, but you don’t budge. You’d feel ashamed to sit next to him, but you’re embarrassed standing where you are too. You feel stuck, as always.

“I don’t get it, Bro. I’ve been training for four years, and you’ve literally watched me beat up a lot of people, and yet you don’t trust me with even meeting your, your girlfriend of ten years,” you retort, trying to acidify your voice. “When do I get to have control of my own shitty life? When do I get to grow the fuck up, and explore the great and bootylicious wonders of the outdoors on my own?”

You watch him grit his teeth, trying to rein in his own frustration, and you almost feel guilty. But then all he says is, “Someday, Dave, when you have more experience. But that day is not today.”

You sigh in exasperation, turning to leave. You refuse to put up with the same unintelligible argument again, rehashed over and over for every remotely provocative question you throw at him.

“Dave, can you help me with something?” His voice is tentative, gentle even.

“What.” You’re trying not to bite. You turn back and can’t help but glare a little.

Bro picks up what he was working on and sets it on the bed next to him. “I added some new vocabulary and grammar to Squarewave’s data set, but I’m worried about the fact that I’m the only person he can train the new skills against. Do you think you could…?”

You stop yourself from leaving and stare at the little robot.

“Hello. How are you?” Squarewave bleats.

You glance back at Bro, who raises his eyebrows slightly and says, “It’s fine if you don’t want to.”

You sigh again, dutifully plopping down on the bed by Squarewave. “’sup, dog?”

He vibrates intensely, then settles down. “What is the meaning of, ‘’sup, dog’?” he inquires.

 “Eh, it’s like what you just said.” You think for a brief moment, then add, “But cooler.”

“’sup, dog’ is equivalent to, ‘Hello. How are you’?” You hear the literal gears turning in his head.

“But cooler.”

“I understand. Greeting modified to, ‘’sup, dog’.”                                                                                           

Bro puts his face in his hands, but poking out from behind his palms are the hints of a smile. Looking back at the little robot, who turns toward Bro and offers a “’sup?”, you find yourself smiling too.


	6. In Which Dave and Karkat Squabble for No Good Reason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is at last, the long-awaited (or, i hope y'all have been waiting for it) chapter six! again i'd like to apologize for it being so late--i have gotten myself in and out of a lot of work-related shenanigans, and also started a fiction/creative nonfiction class in the meantime. in other words, i've been busy, but i've already started working on the following chapter so i think we'll be good for next week! i will post updates on my new tumblr (shishamidaiji) so ye.
> 
> Kanaya's motorcycle is a white 2009 Honda Interceptor and Terezi's is a ugly-ass 2004 Harley-Davidson Heritage Softail, if anybody's interested. i also like talking about cars. talk to me about cars y'all
> 
> PS next chapter may be delayed again... will keep y'all updated on that :B

You hear Kanaya before you see her coming, in the form of a motorized roar ripping through the streets like a vicious chainsaw. Bro left just about six minutes earlier, so you’re alone in the apartment when you poke your head out the window to take a look. You catch sight of a multicolored motorist atop a gleaming white motorcycle, gliding into the alleyway behind your building complex.

The motorcycle slows to a halt by the foot of the fire escape, and the figure tilts their head upward to where you are perched. A gloved hand beckons you down. Although your head is practically screaming at you something like ‘you dumbass, even normal people understand the concept of stranger danger!’ your heart is asking you to trust this person, as if you’ve met them sometime long ago.

So you jump through the window and alight upon the pavement. They’re wearing a black shirt, emblazoned with an emerald symbol of sorts, over a green long-sleeve t-shirt, as well as a scarlet miniskirt and black tights. Their hands are masked in black leather and their feet in bright red boots.

“Are you…” Fuck. “…Tamaya?” you venture.

“It’s Kanaya,” a voice carefully enunciates, though muffled by the yellow helmet. The rider sets down the kickstand and gets off the motorcycle. “Dave Strider, I presume? Or is it, Steve Schneider?”

Your face flushes in both embarrassment and frustration. “Sorry, man, I’m not good with—“

“It was a joke,” the helmeted head interjects. “And, I am a woman. She, her, hers.”

You make a face at her. She seems like she’s staring back, helmet as impenetrable as your shades, and then pats the raised seat behind hers. “Let’s go, Steve. We don’t have too much time.”

“Hold on,” you raise both hands, brain kicking back into gear. “First of all, I already apologized, so please stop calling me Steve. Second, I have no idea when Bro’s coming back, and—“

“Don’t worry about being discovered,” she replies. “We have a contact on our end who is watching his every move. You can rest assured about your safety.”

She gets off the bike, lifts her seat, and pulls out a helmet for you. You’re not sure whether it’s coincidental or deliberate that it’s a bright cherry red. But you’re still hesitant about taking it.

“What’s wrong? You don’t know how to put it on?” Before you can respond Kanaya’s suddenly in your face and – plunk! – promptly pops it over your head, knocking your shades askew.

You automatically readjust your shades before she sees your eyes. “Nah, I, motorcycles, uh…”

She takes your hand, swings herself back onto the motorcycle, and pulls you on behind her. “Riding is very fun. Just grip my shoulders tightly and don’t move around too much, and you’ll be fine. Or, if you are feeling exceptionally afraid, you can put your arms around my waist. I don’t mind.”

You grasp her unexpectedly brawny shoulders at first, but at soon as she revs the motor you find yourself wrapped tightly against her. You watch the road beneath the wheels turn from dirty grays and blacks to healthy light browns, feel the bumps along the way change from potholes to cobblestone. A firefighter would have a better chance peeling a cat off a tree branch than getting you to let go. You stay this way, helmet pressed against her broad back, no shame at all, you tell yourself, for the entire trip.

“Dave?” A gentle gloved hand awkwardly pats your back. “We’re here. Are you feeling sick?”

You were so tense, you hadn’t even noticed that you’d finally parked. You attempt to dismount the motorcycle as fast as you can, but your muscles are incredibly stiff and you miscalculate the amount of force needed to make a neat arc over and around the back of the motorcycle. In other words, you slam your calf on something hard on the other side of the bike and you end up careening to the side and onto your butt. At least the road isn’t filled with gravel and oil puddles like those in your neighborhood.

“So, this ungainly piece of shit is our most esteemed, most honorable, and most dignified guest?” a voice growls. “Hah, my ass. Literally. My buttcheeks flap around more gracefully than that.”

You look up and glare at a short teenage-looking guy, mostly hidden in a large black turtleneck and gray sweatpants. His hazel eyes, filled more with irritation than with menace, glare right back at you. You twitch the edges of your mouth downward; he downright scowls. So this is Gamzee’s friend.

“Karkat!” Kanaya scolds, taking your hand and pulling you up. “Is this an invitation for me to tell him about _your_ first ride on the motorcycle?” Then, more gently, “How are the kids doing?”

Karkat’s light brown face flushes pink. “They’ll stay put in their rooms while Dave’s here, like you instructed them to. Um, you can hand over your cranial shock absorber. I’ll hang it up in the usual spot.”

“It’s called a helmet, Karkat. We shouldn’t be reinforcing the kids’ made-up vocabulary,” Kanaya reminds him as she lifts said object off her head and peels off her leather gloves. You stare in awe at the way her skin seems to sparkle in the sunlight, at her unnaturally black hair, at her choice of green lipstick and yellow contact lenses, at how delicately and precisely her eyebrows and eyeliner are drawn. She’s watching you with an amused expression and opens her mouth to speak, but Karkat beats her to it.

“What, have you never seen a fucking albino person before? Or do you just lack any and all sense of common decency? Oh wow, let’s fish out our loose change while we’re at it? Throw it at the goddamn charity case? Well, there you fucking go. She’s albino. So fucking what. If you are even _thinking_ about how gross or unnatural that is, then I swear to fucking God, I am going to fight you.”

“Hold the fuck up, man,” you interrupt, hands up defensively. “I didn’t say shit about her. Didn’t even think jack shit about her. Sure, she could cut plenty bitches with makeup game that strong, but who’s the one getting all up on my case, huh? It’s not like _you’re_ the albino guy here. Gal. Whatever.”

Karkat growls, “Maybe not, but I’ve experienced my goddamn share of discrimination based on something as superficially ridiculous as skin color. And I’d think that you would have too, but maybe coming to the GFD’s like going to a fucking circus, huh? That doesn’t give you fucking license to stare—“

You ball your hands into fists. “What the hell you saying about me and my district? Tell it clear.”

“Boys,” Kanaya warns. “Settle down, or else I will unleash the little ones on both of you. I will tell them that Karkat and our guest have lots of yummy treats and hugs to spare, and when they find out that both of you have neither of these, you will never see the light of day again. Do you understand?”

In unison and possibly quivering from fear, you both respond obediently, “Yes, Kanaya.”

“Good,” she smiles, emerald lips arching elegantly upward. It reminds you of Rose’s purple lips.

She leads you to the kitchen, motioning for the two of you to sit across from each other at the granite island. As you shuffle awkwardly into the wicker seats, she disappears into a dark hallway.

“So, uh,” Karkat begins, folding and unfolding his hands. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

“Holy shit, Karkat, can you, like, tone it down a little bit? Both the swearing and the volume?”

Karkat scrunches up his face. “What the everloving fuck, we’re eating up _my_ time to cordially discuss some of _your_ asinine, insignificant, and probably entirely meaningless ‘business,’ not the color of my language or the cadence of my voice, so, you immature dipshit, can we just fucking get on with—“

“Dipshit? _Asinine_? Who even talks like that? Oh, yeah, like, middle schoolers teetering between puberty and their first time masturbating. How old are you again, like, twelve?” You are secretly enjoying yourself, watching the guy blow up like an angry brown pufferfish.

“Twelve?!” Karkat is actually yelling at this point. “If I’m twelve, then that makes you an immature ten-year-old who dreams of being half, no, a fucking quarter as cool as I am—“

“BOYS?” Kanaya calls from the other room.

Both of you huddle closer and drop your voices down to whispers. “I’m seven-fucking-teen,” Karkat breathes down your throat, “and I’m the second-in-command of this orphanage. What kinda shit do you have to boast, huh? Don’t tell me. Your favorite hobby is jerking off to thinking about how pitiful you fucking are, and your best friend is a My Little Pony body pillow. Lemme guess, is it Fluttershy?”

“Quoth Kit-Kat Vantas, ‘What the everloving fuck?’” you throw back at him. “I’m eighteen, which makes me senior to you, so take that, you unbelievable bastard. I refuse to confirm whether or not I actually have no friends or hobbies. Although, that body pillow shit wouldn’t be a bad gift idea for Bro.”

Karkat’s about to launch into another painfully idiotic diatribe when an enormous roar, dwarfing even that of Kanaya’s motorcycle, rips through the door and renders you temporarily deaf. Shortly after it stops, a sharp voice yells into the building. “Kaaaarkaaat! We got an assignment!”

“Hold up one fucking second,” you say, raising a finger, then chide yourself sounding exactly like Karkat. “First of all, we’re not done here. Actually, we haven’t even started, and guess whose goddamned fault is that. Second, don’t you fucking dare tell me you’re also a hitman.”

“Your use of the word, ‘also,’ implies that you yourself are one such hitman, which I find exceedingly difficult to believe,” Karkat scoffs. “I am literally stretching my neural network thinner than my incredible amount of patience for you, in trying to imagine you actually killing someone.”

“Well, technically I haven’t—“

“What’s taking so long, Vantas?” In the doorway appears a teenage girl of average height and wearing safety glasses with the lenses tinted an astonishing shade of red. She’s fair-skinned, though not nearly as pale as Kanaya. She has on a tight black blazer over a teal vest and white button-down, plus denim shorts over bright red leggings. She’s the opposite of Kanaya—small shoulders but large hips.

She catches you staring and taps her butt, using a long white cane topped with a crimson dragon head where her hand grips it. “Want some of this?” she teases, showing all of her teeth like a hungry dragon. Then to Karkat, “What’s this hottie doing here? Sorry if I interrupted something… private.”

Karkat’s face goes even redder than earlier, almost matching her outfit. “Goddammit, Terezi, you fucking know that I—ugh, whatever. Just fucking murder me already. This is Dave, who’s being a huge waste of my time on top of being a monstrous asshole and an insufferable prick, and—“

“Hi, Dave!” Terezi practically squeals, drowning out Karkat—a feat you formerly thought impossible. What a gal. “I’m Terezi Pyrope: former law student and current law upholder, but I exact justice more efficiently than anyone with a JD ever could. You always want me on your good side.”

“…Sure. Yeah, like what the angry kitty-cat said—“ Karkat literally growls at you “—I’m Dave. Uh, I don’t do jack shit. Hope I can stay on your good side.” Dashing as she is, you feel like she’s sucked all the words out of the atmosphere and left you with the most unflattering statements for yourself.

Still, she seems to find you very funny, cackling to herself and making Karkat roll his eyes. “So what business do you have with Karkat today?” She lays herself across the table, propping herself up on her elbows right in front of you, her nose almost touching yours. Her glasses seem to obscure her pupils.

“As I was _going_ to say before Karkat Fartmaster Vantas got all flatulent with his mouth here—“ Terezi preemptively slides back into the seat next to him to slap a hand over his mouth; Karkat looks like he’s about to scream “—I’m looking for someone named John Egbert. I need to, uh, repay a favor.”

“A favor?” Terezi first imitates stabbing Karkat in the abdomen. “Or, a _favor_ favor?” Then she makes a hole with one hand and sticks a finger in and out of it with her other hand.

Now it’s your turn to facepalm and Karkat’s turn to sneer. “Look, the guy saved my life and I just wanna drop a line and say thanks. All without Bro knowing anything, which is why I’m sneaking around asking all of you for your help. That and I know jack shit about him, and obviously I can’t ask Bro.”

“It’s a _favor_ favor then,” Karkat says smugly, crossing his arms. Your face feels like it’s on fire.

“Is this ‘Bro’ you speak of… is it the one and only Dirk Strider?” Terezi inquires. When you nod grimly, her face lights up, showing all her teeth, more fascinating than creepy. “Oh boy, sounds like fun! Strider Senior’s bungled enough of my plans that I want in. You can count on me to see this through.”

Karkat grumbles in accord. “Halle-fucking-lujah, something interesting’s finally happening for once in our miserable goddamn lives. Dave, meet us a week from now, 11:25am sharp at Suburban Preparatory Academy. Kanaya will drop you off a block away from S’burb. Terezi will fetch you and take you to a predesignated meeting location. And I’ll bring your coveted Egbert out for you. Is that clear?”

“Clear as fuck,” you reply automatically, but your mind is swimming with words and people. This is… actually happening? Is “S’burb” short for Suburban… whatever their high school is called? These people, who are also hitmen, are making this happen? Is Kanaya also a hitman? Sorry, hitwoman?

Right on cue, Kanaya reemerges and lays a ghostly white hand on your shoulder. With her other hand she ends a call on a thin black phone. “Hello, Terezi.” She gives her a polite nod, then addresses all of you. “Sorry to interrupt, everyone, but Sollux has informed me that Dave must be on his way now.”

Karkat and Terezi stand, and you follow suit confusedly. “What’s going on now?” you ask.

“We’re going to assault some English clan mobsters and bash their brains in,” Terezi announces.

“Sollux is our informant, keeping tabs on your brother’s movements, and it seems like the elder Strider is heading back to your place,” Karkat explains more helpfully. “That fucking douchebag couldn’t stand to give us more advanced warning though. And he calls himself a ‘thpy,’ Jesus fucking Christ… Anyway, I’m gonna get dressed for the mission so I look less like Dave and more like a real hitman.”

You’re about to protest, but then he continues, “See you around, Dave. Nice to meet you, though know that I say that exceptionally and grudgingly. …And good luck, I guess. Now get your stupid ass going.” With that, he disappears into the hallway where Kanaya came from.

“…Thanks, Grubface,” you shout after him, for lack of better response (or insult). Terezi snorts and sticks her tongue out. Kanaya places a hand on your back, gently guiding you toward the door.

Outside there’s a massive Harley-Davidson, even larger than a smartcar. Save for gaudy red flames spray-painted all over it, it’s completely teal-colored, even the metal parts. Kanaya reclaims your attention by plopping a helmet over your head, and you gingerly balance yourself behind her and lift your feet off the ground. With one last glance at the orphanage and Terezi’s ridiculous motorcycle, you’re off, roaring through gold-tinted streets and back into the nether regions of the Borough.

 

The trip back home seems much quicker than the ride to the orphanage; without realizing it you’re back at the apartment. You swing yourself off the motorcycle with more self-assurance this time. But before Kanaya revs back into motion, you tug at her sleeve to ask her not to leave quite yet. She lifts her helmet, the rays of the setting sun dancing off her gleaming skin in brilliant reds and yellows, and you scramble for words. You can’t help but think about how lucky Rose is to be friends with her.

“Why is everyone so willing to help me?” you say. “I’ve never met any of you until literally today. Like, why did you spend all this time to ferry me all around the city, all the while keeping tabs on Bro? I mean, you got a sick ride there and all, but like, do you want something from me in return, or…?”

Kanaya tucks her helmet under her arm and thinks for a moment. “Well, some of us are just doing it for, I think the phrase is, ‘shits and giggles.’ For example, Sollux just likes having an excuse to hack into the citywide surveillance system. And Terezi, while she has possibly taken a liking to you—“

“Possibly,” you smirk.

“—I believe in reality she enjoys breaking the law just as much as she enjoys upholding it. If anything, she sees herself as the only one with the authority to do so. Plus, she’ll take any opportunity available to her to show that she knows S’burb Academy’s rules and grounds better than any of us.”

“But what about you? Or Mr. Ragequit McLoudmouth?” You shift from foot to foot, anxious both to hear her answer and that Bro may catch you with her.

“I’ll try that one on him next time,” she smiles. “Anyway, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Gamzee did well to refer you to Karkat. Not only do John and Karkat both go to S’burb, but there is absolutely nothing that can stop Karkat once he sees himself as a key arbiter of love and relationships.”

You cough on a stray cloud of smog or something. “Wait, what are you saying about—“

“Me, on the other hand,” she continues, completely ignoring you, “Rose and I are very close friends. And so when she and Roxy explained the situation to me, I felt compelled to help them with their cause. If I am being completely honest, I do not think very much of you as of now, but there are some people out there who care a lot about you, Dave Strider. Including, I think, as you call him, ‘Bro.’”

The world seems to slow around you. “…What do you know about Bro?”

“Not much, really. But as you know, Rose and Roxy are cousins, and are quite close in any case, and you may know that Roxy and your Bro have been good friends for a long time, with Roxy appearing to have sustained a longtime crush on him, although a romantic relationship between them seems impossible even if someone were to intervene, me notwithstanding—“

“No offense, Kanaya, but, I literally don’t care about my brother’s choice of people to bang.”

“But you should, Dave,” she chastises, “because I always thought Dirk was very fond of Jake.”

Your heart begins pounding, an all too familiar sensation at this point. “What the hell do you mean, ‘very fond’ of Jake?”

She fits the helmet back on, but raises the visor to maintain eye contact. “Take it as you will, but if the extent to which Dirk is trying to keep you away from John, and Jake by extension, is as extreme as it seems, then we have reason to believe that this issue runs a lot deeper than either of us may realize.”

A small flashing light accompanied by an insistent beeping goes off inside her helmet, coloring her right cheek in alternating neon red and blue. “Goodbye, Dave,” she says. “It was nice talking to you, but it seems I must go now. See you later then.”

She shuts off the alarm by closing her visor and mounts her motorcycle. With a curt wave of a gloved hand, she zooms off into the distance. The reverberating roar of her departure, trapped by the surrounding concrete buildings, echoes in your ears long past the fading of her image from your view.

As you hoist yourself back up the fire escape and through the window, you only have one thought: no matter what it takes, you are not gonna let Bro have his way with you and your own story.


	7. In Which the Author Apologizes for Stalling But They Were Kinda Busy Again This Week So Yeah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. i'm really sorry, this week i had to write another ~5000 words in addition to some other work stuff so... here's a shortened chapter. initially i was gonna have The First Meeting altogether in here but i figured this was as good of a place as any to end it. so i hope next chapter will be what everyone's been waiting for... sorry it's taken so long, but i want it to be a really good chapter........
> 
> 2\. i have no idea how to code pesterlog stuff. i mean, i googled it (it was one of the insta-results, 'how to code pesterlogs in ao3,' but urk i'm super coding-illiterate and don't have as much free time as i'd like at the moment. but in the future i'd like to come back to this and code it. or just draft one of my siblings to do it, idk. but yeah, sorry about that too.
> 
> 3\. hope you enjoy this short chapter!!! as always, if you have any questions or comments or suggestions, just lemme know by commenting below, shooting a message to me here, or sending me an ask on tumblr (shishamidaiji). thanks, everyone!!

The school bell rings, an insistent electronic beeping over the intercom, and you freeze. What class do you have next again? Did you forget your books in the period before? Is it safe to go to your locker, or would it be better to be late for class to fetch your stuff without anybody bothering you?

“Uh… Dave? Hello? Anyone there?”

But then, what if they do the thing where they get to class on time and get permission to leave to “go to the bathroom,” and so no matter how late you get to your locker, they’ll be there waiting for you? And if the principal catches wind that you completely skipped yet another class, what if you get—

A warm, wet mass slapping and sliding against your cheek snaps you back into reality. “Yes, presence of Dave confirmed,” Terezi announces. “Did you forget The Plan? Come on, let’s go already!”

“Shit, TZ,” you mumble, wiping off her saliva with your sleeve. “Can’t a man vividly experience his post-traumatic school distress without getting a faceful of slobber?”

“Uh, no,” she practically shouts, tugging at your hand. “We only have five minutes to get into the back meadows, and then five to get back out, remember? That’s when all the students are leaving and going back to class, so we gotta to do our best to blend in with everyone and make it all the way in.”

You sigh and let yourself be lugged around across the campus. Right—you can’t believe this school has a fucking _campus_. The public Veilchen Borough high school consisted simply of one graffiti-covered brick building, with two floors of classrooms and a cafeteria in the basement, and which borrowed the nearby youth club for their gym.

Suburban Preparatory Academy, on the other hand, is like a small liberal-arts college, and you’d bet tuition costs just as much. As you enter through the pearly white gates (which Sollux almost forgot to unlock for you), you weave past buildings dedicated exclusively to the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences; they have their own gymnasium, as well as two pools in clear glass buildings; and, following Terezi’s frenetic yet discreet walking pace, you arrive at a massive white building, decked out with Greek columns and animal statues, labeled “The Crocker Student Center and Dining Hall.”

“Damn,” you breathe out. “Crocker like, what, Betty Crocker?”

“You got it,” Terezi grins. “In fact, you should probably get to know Crocker Junior sometime. She’s someone else you want on your side. I’m sure if you ask Dirk nicely enough, he’ll introduce you.”

“Wait, how does Bro—“ you begin, but Terezi drags you around the building toward the back. Behind the Crocker Student Center, there’s a huge expanse of tender green grass, speckled with yellow and purple wildflowers and littered with picnic tables and fancy solar compactor trash cans. You’re not sure where exactly Terezi’s aiming for now, but you feel your heart begin to race. This must be where you’ll finally meet him, where your mission will come to an end but perhaps a friendship will begin—

“Well, well, well, looks like this piece’a trash somehow washed up onto our golden shores.”

With each wobbling _w_ , everything seems to slow around you. This is part of why you left school.

“Who are you calling trash, Ampora?” Terezi growls. “Quit bothering us and move aside. We have something very important to be taking care of right now.”

_Terezi, no_ , you think to yourself hopelessly, but your mouth is glued shut and completely dry.

“Is that so?” Eridan sneers. “Well, so do I, and that’s putting you two back in your places.” He approaches you, and all you can do is shrink back in fear. Terezi’s ready to fight, raising her fists, but you just want to hide from the kid that bullied you all throughout middle school, starting with your eye color, but later dissolving into throwing insults and punches alike just to make himself feel more important.

“Oh look, it’s everyone’s favorite pathetic and pitiful asshole, except not really. Fuck off, Eridan.”

Eridan visibly bristles and takes a step back. A girl with long black hair and fierce cerulean eyes appears beside Terezi. She pushes up her wide-rimmed glasses and places a hand on her hip jutting out.

“This is none’a your business, Vriska!” Eridan says, more shakily now. “We got history here, you see, so just skitter off with your bitch, I mean, bestie, Terezi over there, and—“

“Nah, don’t feel like it.” Vriska flips her hair and crosses her arms. “You’ll never see the Scourge Sisters back down from a fight. You pick a fight with Terezi, then I’ll come full force at you too.”

“Tch.” Eridan takes another step back. “Not sure if you wanna be associatin’ with the garbage of the garbage district. Yeah, I mean you, pinkeye boy.” He spits onto the ground in front of your shoes.

Then Vriska notices you, and looks you up and down. “Huh, where’d you pick up this hunk, Terezi? He ain’t bad at all.”

“Yeah, but Dave’s not for me,” Terezi shrugs. “In fact, your favorite boy has hooked his heart.”

“…Is that so.” Vriska frowns slightly, and you hope to God that she isn’t gonna turn on you and join Eridan in hating your guts. But then she asks Terezi, “Is he… is he the rumored younger Strider?”

You temporarily unfreeze long enough to emit a loud sigh. How is it that literally everybody knows your brother? And has he been keeping you a secret from everyone else? “Yeah, that’s me.”

Eridan’s face scrunches into a snarl. “Those Striders’re from the ghetto part’a town. They’re the reason why Veilchen’s so shitty. They belong with other lowlives, like those ratchet Megido sisters—“

With as much communication between them as you use with Bro, Vriska hoists Terezi into the air and launches her at Eridan. Terezi executes a flying kick, which lands smack on Eridan’s cheek.

“We’re not about that cultural appropriation of AAVE. And on top of that, you’re a traitor and a disgrace to your own district,” Vriska announces. Then she turns back to you, and you steel your nerves so you don’t cringe. “Dave, is it? …I don’t know what business you have with John, but if you so much as lay a finger on him, then know that I will lay eight octillion times the amount of fingers back on you!”

You nod so hard you think your head will fall off, even though you have no idea what she’s talking about. Terezi punches Vriska in the shoulder, and tilts her head toward Eridan. Vriska rolls her eyes and shrugs— _I’ll take care of him. Go on_. Terezi gives a thumbs up and drags you away.

“Uh. Sorry ‘bout Eridan. Me and him got some history going on, by which I mean I’m horribly traumatized from spending four miserable years of prepubescence with him and he probably still has wet dreams involving beating me into a creamy pulp. But, like, what the fuck was _that_ about?” You attempt to free your hands from a grip more akin to locked alligator jaws than a teenage girl’s hands.

“Oh, that was just Vriska’s version of the best friend lecture,” Terezi responds, mercifully releasing you. “You know what I mean?”

You actually don’t, but after everything today you just find it easier to nod and move on. You really, really don’t miss school and your fellow pre-teen, now teenage, dickheads after all these years.

“You don’t actually know what I mean, do you?” Terezi is quite perceptive. You shudder, now reminded of Rose—and then realize that Terezi must have been that lawyer contact she mentioned way back when. You groan, which Terezi takes to be an affirmative.

“Vriska and John are homies, and a pretty odd pair at that. John used to be friends with literally everybody, but after he and Vriska started hanging out all the time, he alienated a whole bunch of people by association. Like poor Nitram, for example.”

“Nitram? As in, Tavbro?” You slap yourself. “Tavros, sorry. Names, man.”

Terezi turns to you and grins. “Oh hell yeah, Vriska seriously fucked him over that one time. That incident was actually disgusting. So even though Tavros and John used to be fairly close, he now steers completely clear of him. Not sure if he doesn’t like John anymore, or if he’s trying to warn him about Vriska. Anyhow, that should serve a warning to you too, Mr. Strider, if you do anything to John, I mean.”

You stuff your hands in your pockets. “Clear as fuck,” you say with as much confidence as you can muster, the amount which is approximately equal to how much dignity Eridan had after being sent sprawling just earlier, which, to clarify for the readers’ convenience, is not very much.

“Hey, there he is,” Terezi says, as if she’s informing you of the weather outside today.

You, on the other hand, feel your heartrate skyrocketing just upon hearing her words. This creates two irrational lines of thought. The first one almost sends you running back in the direction from which you came, which would be completely detrimental to every bit of progress, everything you’ve been working toward since that fateful night when he saved your life. Thankfully you don’t do that.

The second one emerges in the form of the following scenario:

DAVE: John. (The taste of his name upon your lips is refreshingly sweet.) 

JOHN: Yes, Dave? (You just assume he already knows your name.) 

DAVE: Are you a doctor? (This is gonna brilliant, you’re sure of it.) 

JOHN: Uh, I— (His answer can be variable; it doesn’t really matter.) 

DAVE: I need chest surgery right away. (Wait for it…) 

JOHN: …Huh? What? Why? (Oh, John…) 

DAVE: Because you’ve stolen my heart, baby. (That… wasn’t cool at all…) 

“Dave?” It’s that voice. That voice that seems to reach beyond your eighteen years of life and across the universe, across alternate universes even. It couldn’t belong to anybody else.

Fuck. Were you just muttering to yourself? Terezi’s expression, more perturbed than amused, indicates yes. Are you standing in front of the boy you’ve been searching for this entire time? The boy in blue in front of you, more curious than confused, indicates yes. Goddammit, Dave. You are so, so dumb.


	8. In Which Two Boys Exchange Pesterchum Handles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been so long!! the past weeks have been really stressful (yeah i keep talkin about stress sorry) but i've moved back to school so, while i will probably be busy because of classes/research, i will also be in a better state of mind to be writing. and you can definitely expect next week's chapter to be right on time!
> 
> i realized i gave myself a lot of trouble by leaving this conversation to be its own chapter, because me being somewhat of a perfectionist plus my really deep love for johndave made me really agonize over getting every little bit right... so i hope you enjoy this chapter!! it's pretty light in terms of length and content, especially compared to next week's.
> 
> also you'll notice i figured out how to use the hamsteak work skin! hooray! (it's not difficult to use at all actually, i just... didn't get around to doing so til now...)
> 
> as always, if you have any questions or comments, you can PM/comment on AO3 here, or you can send me an ask at shishamidaiji.tumblr.com . thanks for sticking around, everyone!!

Your name is Dave Strider, you are the (self-proclaimed) second-best hitman and the first-best mixer of sicknasty beats in Veilchen Borough, and you feel like you’ve just woken up.

Amidst the stress of your anxiety triggered by the school setting, never mind the douchebag that calls itself Eridan, as well as the incessant ticking in your head reminding you there’s not much time you have here, plus the cherry on top of constantly worrying about Bro finding out that you’re gone from the apartment… everything’s in a haze. You know your heart is beating way too fast for someone who’s standing stock still, yet its thumping feels slower than a cautiously approaching elephant. Ah yes, the elephant in the room, or rather, the elephant in the massive field that is S’burb’s backyard…

John Egbert stands before you, his very existence filling you with, well, you’re not sure if it’s misplaced nostalgia or déjà vu. His black hair is swept to one side over an undercut, shiny as if gelled, but if he did indeed attempt to tame his hair, he’s clearly lost the battle, as it sticks up in two or three different places in a chronic case of bedhead. He’s wearing a soft blue tank top under a white zippered short sleeve vest with a hood on the back, with faded gray jeans and glaring yellow sneakers. Basically a fashion travesty, ignoring the fact that you look even dorkier in your white button-down, red sweater, and black tie, not to mention your black jeans and bright red sneakers. Oh, and your shades of course.

And his eyes. You remember the blue of his clothing that fateful night, the blue of your bruises after sparring with Bro, the blue of the sky when you wake up in the morning with the sun on your face, but none of them can compare to the blue of John’s eyes. They encapsulate all those blues and more.

God, he’s gorgeous.

Terezi says, “Uh, I’m gonna go now. As of now you only have fifteen minutes, so if you’re gonna do the diddly-doo then you better make it a quickie. That’s what Karkat suggested, anyway. Bye!”

“Gross, Terezi!” John laughs at Terezi’s absconding figure. You, on the other hand, turn redder than your outfit, your hand almost flying to your face to make sure your shades are hiding your eyes.

John gestures to a particularly large oak tree and sits at its base. He says something about not bringing lunch so he doesn’t talk to you with his mouth full, he can just eat in Miss Serket’s boring history class, it helps to pass the time. _Time_ , you’re losing it, every second, the ticking reminds you.

"John," you don't mean to interrupt him but fuck it your nerves are getting the better of you. "First I should apologize in advance for being weird, and not like cutesy anime girl aesthetic weird, but like 'oh shit Grandma's off her rocker' weird, cuz yeah talking to yourself is the thing people do when they don't really have other people in their lives to socialize with, like didja know I'm here secretly, actually you probably did know that, okay nevermind, anyway, but ever since that other night I just wanted to, I dunno, I had to come see you, wait, now I sound like everyone's friendly neighborhood stalker-murderer who lives in their ailing mother's basement, but seriously I meant to say that—“

“Woah, Dave, it’s okay! I’m not going anywhere,” John cuts you off, hands in the air. You resist the weird temptation to take both his hands in yours, instead jamming your hands down your pockets. “I know you’re nervous, but don’t be. Just take a deep breath, and start over. No worries. Take your time.”

_There’s not enough time_ , you want to say. _We have thirteen minutes and counting down. There’s so much I want to ask you, so much I want to tell you. I want to talk to you about things I didn’t even know I wanted to talk about with anyone else. I feel like I’ve known you for a really, really long time._

What you say instead is, “So. That night.” Aw man, it sounds like you’re talking about sexytimes.

“What about that night?” John responds, the twinkle in his eye indicating he’s clearly thinking the same. But then his gaze turns to your wrist—you were able to ditch the splints and go for the ace bandaging as of a few days ago—and he asks more seriously, “Is that from back then?”

“Oh, this?” you say, turning your wrist as if you’re just noticing it. “Yeah. But I’m fine now. Uh…”

_Just tell him ‘thank you’ already, you pansy. That’s the whole reason why you’re here, isn’t it?_

“The other guy was your brother, right?” John says before you can get any words out.

“Yeah, that’s Bro. He’s pretty chill,” you reply. You want to ask John why he became a hitman, but figure that’s not a first-conversation kind of thing. “And the green guy’s your cousin, right?”

John looks confused for a second, and you’re ready to hit yourself for remembering wrong. But then he says, “Oh, um, yeah, let’s go with that. It’s kind of a long story. But I do live and train with him.”

“Cool.” The two of you are silent for a bit. He seems like he’s enjoying himself, closing his eyes whenever a breeze washes over both of you, but you feel jittery, like you should be using your time better than this. You’re about to spout some nonsense when he begins to talk again first.

“So do you not have school today, or?” He looks at you, and you want to avoid those eyes now.

“Urk,” you respond. He’s about to speak, probably to reassure you or something, but you quickly continue. “I actually dropped out in the middle of eighth grade. Couldn’t stand any more _Romeo and Juliet_ and finding _x_ and _y_ , yannow what I mean?” You decide not to tell him about how you got suspended for knocking a teacher and two students unconscious and then just never returned to school.

 “You’ve been a hitman since then?” he says, like it’s a totally normal student extracurricular. You purse your lips in an uneasy yes. “That’s cool, I’ve only been training for about two years now.”

“Two years?” you work to restrain your voice. “Damn, you’re really good with that hammer.”

John completely lights up. “Really, you think so? I was having a really hard time keeping up with your sword!” He looks down at his hands, folded in his lap. “Maybe we can train together sometime?”

Your heart soars, but then Kanaya’s words from the other day pull you back down. “Dude, normally I’d be down to physically nurture our budding bromance, but… it seems like there’s some sort of history between Bro and your, um, cousin. And it’s kinda hard for me to get out the apartment. Bro’s a bit protective. Like a big orange mother hen. And I’m a little red chick who doesn’t know how to fly.”

His front teeth worry his bottom lip. Three of them are slightly crooked, sticking out at odd angles to each other, much like his hair. “Yeah, now that I think about it, Jake gets a bit touchy when I ask him about you. Sorry, about you and your bro, I mean. But yeah, I heard you get cooped up like a chicken at home—oh geez, sorry, that was a weird thing to say. Um.”

Yeah, that was weird, you want to tell him, feeling slightly affronted. But more than anything, you feel the resentment against Bro resurface. You wonder how Jake treats John—well, first of all clearly Jake’s not monitoring each and every move John makes, the way Bro thinks he does for you. You sigh.

“Uh,” John interjects, waving his hands and stirring up the grass. “I’m sure he won’t mind if we chat though, right? Plus it’ll be easier for us to try to hang out without having to go through, like, five different people.” ( _Tell me about it_ , you think.) “Do you have Pesterchum? No? Can I see your phone?”

You hand John your phone, and he marvels at the fact that you don’t use a passcode. He then downloads an app on it—Sollux had granted him and his friends access to the school’s remarkably high-speed wi-fi as soon as he cracked the password, he explains—and returns your phone.

“Here, I got Pesterchum for you,” John says amiably. You tilt your head to the side, since he’s unable to read your silences. “It’s a messenger client. Go make a username and add me! I’m ‘ectoBiologist.’ It’s kind of a dumb name, huh, but it’s nothing compared to my original handle, haha…”

“Nah, it sounds cool, all science-y and shit,” you say without thinking. You focus your gaze on the phone in your hands, but you can see him beaming out of the corner of your eye. What’s that dumb smile for? But maybe nobody’s ever told him that before. You can understand something like that.

You go through the set-up, select your name and color in just two seconds (“Wow, Dave! I’ve never seen anyone decide on their handle so fast!”), and send him a friend request. His phone vibrates.

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 12:06 –

EB: hi, dave! :B  
TG: sup  
EB: cool name. what’s it mean?  
TG: ty and idk  
TG: shrug  
EB: haha you typed shrug but you didn’t shrug in real life.  
TG: what do you laugh whenever you type lol  
TG: watch me lololololol  
TG: see my face is as still as the statue of david  
TG: footnote my face is also just as worthy of preserving forever in finely sculpted mineral form  
TG: anyway egbert dont tell me you actually haul your ass onto the floor for some brutal rofling  
TG: or do you not have an ass because you lmaod it off  
EB: that means “laugh my ass off’d it off” if you weren’t aware!  
TG: yeah whatever  
TG: so is your ass intact or  
TG: fuck nevermind  
TG: wait does this mean if you ever send me <3s  
TG: youre really just professing your undying love for numbers less than three  
TG: hey man its cool im personally a fan of negative numbers  
TG: theyre like normal numbers except unreal  
TG: right??  
TG: shit idk i didnt graduate middle school ok  
TG: not like youd ever send me <3s me thats a level of bromance i dont consent to rn  
TG: wow ok im just talking to myself here huh  
TG: jesus egbert say something im dying alone in cyberspace here  
TG: or type something whatever dont leave me hanging bud  
EB: dave, i think you’re blushing!  


Your hand flies to your very warm cheek. Fuck, you are blushing.

“Man, you’re definitely sassier over Pesterchum!” John grins at you. “Don’t worry, I totally get that. Sometimes it’s easier to express yourself online than in real life, am I right?”

_Exactly._ You look him right in the eyes, but he doesn’t comprehend what the gesture means (you’re not even sure if he can tell where your own eyes are yet), so you add in a nod for clarification.

“I can’t believe you didn’t have Pesterchum at all until now,” John continues. “Then again, I guess since you’re not in school you don’t really need to ask your classmates for homework help, huh?”

“Wow, rag on the friendless loser, why don’tcha? It’s not my fault I don’t have any friends,” you bite, then draw back in surprise at your own words. But of course the more nervous you get, the more your mouth keeps running. “Not that I actually don’t have any friends. In fact I have more than I could count, and not just cuz I failed math class. There’d be too many for Pesterchum’s servers to handle, and hell I don’t have the money to let them sue me destroying their entire database, but at the same time it’d be totally unfair to my hordes of fans if I were to pick only, like, a few hundred for my friend list. It’d even be unfair to the weebs and furries, God bless their wretched souls, but yannow what I mean?”

At this point you’re almost short of breath, what with your anxiety-induced word vomit plus your stress-induced soaring heartrate, but for some reason John hasn’t tried to stop you or anything.

After a pause, as if trying to completely process all your nonsense, John says, “Does that mean I’m _really_ special then?” He leans closer to you, placing a hand on his cheek and fluttering his eyelashes.

_Gay_ , you want to tell him, because it’s totally not like you find that awkwardly cute or anything. Instead you say, “Uh, sure, you can tell yourself that. Watch me give a shit. Oops, sorry, error occurred, nothing happened. Please try again later.”

John actually laughs at you this time. “You’re kinda weird, you know that?”

“Bad-weird or?” you ask before you can stop yourself. God, how old are you, like, ten years old?

“Oh, I dunno…” He pretends to give it some thought, and you want to grab his shoulders and shake him back and forth and tell him, if you don’t like me you can just tell me to go away, I won’t care. But then he says with a wink, “Sure, you can tell yourself that. But I think I might care to disagree.”

You are not sure what to say. “John, you are cheesier than mozzarella pizza. Without sauce.”

“You call that cheesy?” John stands up and dusts off his pants. He lifts a hand dramatically toward the sun. “How’bout this: _ohhhh when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s a—_ “

“HEY lovebirds, if you’re all cleaned up and shit then Dave’s gotta run,” Terezi calls from across the field. From here she’s only small teal figure in the distance, albeit one with a very projecting voice. Behind her is Vriska, who’s sitting on a purple bench. She gives a curt wave when she catches sight of you and John. When the bench flattens itself onto the grass, you realize it’s actually poor Eridan.

“You’ve got a nice voice,” you tell John as you take his hand and lifts you up. For a moment you don’t let go, but John plays it cool by letting go to scratch the back of his neck.

“Thanks,” he says, and you wonder if he’s faintly blushing. “It’s hard though, since girls seem to like guys with tenor voices more. Like, my voice range doesn’t quite work for most pop songs.”

Girls, huh? Your shoulders sag a bit, but you work it into your regular slouch and stuff your hands in your pockets. Oh fuck, you haven’t told him thank you for the other night. You don’t even know how to word it. And you’re not sure if you want to end this yet.

“John, wait, I wanted to tell you something in person, about, you know, that other time when we met but not really, and by met I mean, our respective family members pitted us against each other like fighting cocks—sorry, I meant, like, uh, pit bulls, dogs, hitmen, I dunno, I just wanted to say—“

“DAVE! LET’S GO!” Terezi, now by your side, deems it completely necessary to yell right into your ear. Your entire brain feels like it’s ringing from the otherworldly frequency of her voice, but John’s laughing brings you back to a normal plane of existence.

“GDI, Terezi, can’t you see we’re having a moment?” you say with exaggerated irritation. Then you try frowning to emphasize your displeasure, but it ends up feeling more like a pout.

“Looks to me like you’re having one all to yourself,” she quips. You groan in exasperation and John giggles, to which she responds, “I mean, that’s not a _bad_ thing. Just, kinda weird? Okay, whatever, we have to go. The school gates are closing very soon and Sollux can only stall them for so long.”

John claps a hand over your shoulder and stage-whispers, “Dave. We’ve only just met, but I have a feeling… that we shall meet again.” Then he straightens up, hand falling back to his side. “Seriously though, don’t worry about it, alright? Let’s hang out again sometime. Today was fun.”

Your heart flutters. The ticking in your head fades away. You wish you could keep that image of him, eyebrows slanting downward and his lopsided smile revealing uneven teeth, in your mind forever.

“Let’s goooooooo,” Terezi complains, tugging on your sweater. You take a hesitant step back, wanting to say something, stay a little longer. But John shakes his hand at you, urging you to head out.

“Don’t worry,” John says again. “I get the feeling that time will be on your side.”

With that, Terezi whisks you away, and you manage a short nod before she actually drags you away. You take a quick glance back—this isn’t _Spirited Away_ or some paranormal anime shit like that, or at least you hope to God you won’t get stuck at a fucking high school for the rest of your life—and John’s still there, waving his hand like a dog wagging its tail, even though he just met you, or especially because he just met you. And you don’t even know the next time you’ll be seeing him again.

But then you remember the phone in your hand, and your first pesterlog ever recorded. Terezi asks you, what’s that weird little smile on your face, but you tell her it’s nothing. Nothing, except that you feel like the you that entered this high school just over half an hour ago is just a bit different, maybe a little bit happier, than the you that’s now heading back into the real world.


	9. In Which the Author Shifts to Dirk’s Point of View Just This Once

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyy hallo hope you like this one!
> 
> prob won't be an update next week though, maybe not even the week after, bc still trying to figure out my class schedule & also some stuff occurring in the private spheres of my life. sorry! but idk if anyone's even reading this, haha, so i guess it's not a big deal.
> 
> as always, post comments/questions or send them to shishamidaiji @ tumblr. thanks, everyone!

Your name is Dirk Strider. You are crouched behind a wooden bench, listening to the dim murmur of voices escaping the concrete behind you. Directly across from you is an armored car, its blackness allowing it to almost blend into the night. When viewed from the side, it is large enough to hide your brother, standing upright, broken sword in hand. You tap a finger lightly, almost silently, against the bench. After a few moments—one moment too long for your liking—you hear a faint click of his nail against the car. You want to poke your head under the bench to try to catch a glimpse of him, to see what the hell could possibly be distracting him, but the door beside you swings open.

Two figures completely clad in form-fitting black, one short and skinny and the other tall and wide, emerge from the building. The door swings out in your direction, so they don’t see you at all. You watch them approach the car, and you ready your grip on your katana. Dave will catch the driver, the small one, by surprise, and when the large one goes to defend them, you’ll—

_Ping!_ The sound could be no other than that of a text message notification.

All bodies freeze for a split second. Then the small one whips out their gun and bolts to the driver’s side, firing recklessly. The large one swivels around and catches sight of you, pulling out their own handgun and shooting. A hot flash courses through your entire body as you’re forced to remember that night, weeks ago, when Dave was under fire from yet another Makara, but your instincts take over and you roll away from the bench. Then your training overrides your instinct to flee, and you charge at the person, surprising them just long enough for you to neatly slit their throat. As the large one topples to the pavement, all gunshots cease—you fear the worst and your heart skips a beat—but you run to the side of the car and find Dave sitting atop the small fry, jagged sword at the back of their neck.

You want to say something, want to ask him _What the fuck was that noise?_ but the mission isn’t over yet. Once he wrestles the car keys away from the figure, he turns his face, indicating that it is time for you to slit their jugular. You could never understand how after all these years, he couldn’t stand killing anyone on his own, but he’d always give you bullshit answers like “I’m fine with slaying my internet fans with my sick beats,” or “I think I’ve experienced my fair share of death in an alternate universe already, don’t you think so?” so after a while you gave up trying to make him to do it himself.

After you jam all radiowaves within a fifty mile radius using a small frequency-emitting device you made yourself, Dave unlocks the car, destroys the surveillance cameras embedded in the windshield and in the trunk, and fishes out the grand prize—a heavy titanium-alloy suitcase, stowed in a hidden compartment under the passenger seats. He presents it to you and you snatch it from him—the gesture is much more aggressive than you intended for it to be, but still he shrinks back because he knows why. You don’t say anything to him, not yet, not until you’ve handed over the suitcase to your employer.

“Bro?” he tries, but you shake your head and point a finger in the opposite direction of where you’re headed. He hesitates—since when did he hesitate when you ordered him to return home?—but he takes a step back, takes one last glance at you—that’s new, too—and then takes off.

You brush it off. He’s probably just acting up because he’s still upset that you made him stay home from missions for the past few weeks. That could explain his increased reclusiveness, not counting the incident where Roxy and Rose found him wandering outside against your explicit orders. At the same time, though, it’s been harder to read him when he does allow you into his space—has he become less expressive (which is good, you want that, but…), or is he experiencing something that you’re not quite able to read? Well, in any case, his wrist is all the better because of his time off, you tell yourself.

You clean your sword using the small figure’s blazer and shift the suitcase, wedging it tightly between your arm and body. Then you’re off, flash-stepping to the contractor’s office. She promised you a third of the value of whatever is in that suitcase. You hope to God that it’s cold, hard cash, because that makes it so much easier to pay rent to your landlord, who has always preferred cash over checks.

 

Dave has holed himself up in his room when you get home. You remember the way things used to be, how you’d arrive at the apartment to find him idly spinning around on one of the kitchen stools, sprawled out on the futon sound asleep, or even bathing in cold water so that the shower would be hot by the time you returned. With a small sigh, you approach his door, hand raised in mid-knock, when you hear it again— _ping!_

This time, without the heat of the mission stopping you, barely-restrained rage makes you barge into his room without knocking at all. Dave drops something small and hard onto the ground, bends over to pick it up, stops under your glare, and turns back toward you.

“Give it to me,” you say evenly. Dave doesn’t move. You take a step forward; he scrambles for it.

It’s his phone. It’s a smartphone, which he never used it for anything other than calling you or surfing the internet. But for some reason tonight, when you extend your hand, he doesn’t relinquish it.

“What is wrong with you?” you demand, asking for it again by closing and opening your palm.

“What’s wrong with you?” he shoots back, still holding onto it. You notice he’s attached a shitty acrylic case onto it—probably something you left lying around after you built your own phone case.

“What’s wrong with me?” you say, keeping your voice monotone, painful for both of you to listen to. “I am the guardian of someone who almost got both of us killed because of a stupid text message. Now tell me, why the hell was your phone going off in the middle of a mission?”

It pings again, and you’re about to tear your hair out. He attempts to be nonchalant in flicking it to silent mode, and he says to his lap, “I forgot to turn off Pesterchum notifications. Sorry.”

“’Sorry’ won’t cut it.” Your voice drops to a whisper. “Give the phone to me. Now.”

“No!” Dave pulls back but he’s already flush against his desk. He clutches the phone to his chest, nowhere to go, and you draw a dagger from the strap against your thigh. You are so angry, you aren’t even seeing clearly anymore, you almost take off your shades, you raise the dagger against him—

He doesn’t flinch. Dave does not flinch. The dagger is an inch from his forehead, your arm is frozen in the air, for the first time ever Dave does not flinch. Every time you did this you never, ever, ever intended to hurt him—you had built up this self-control through formal training in Japanese sword-fighting and through a lifetime of learning to master your own body to sell to the world of hitmen—but this time Dave does not flinch.

“…abuse.”

“What?” you say. You saw his lips move but couldn’t make out what he was whispering.

“Bro, this is abuse,” he says, louder. With what you would call… defiance? Confidence, even?

You stand there, unmoving, then lower the dagger and re-sheathe it. “…What are you saying?”

“What am I saying?!” he suddenly shouts, leaping up from his chair. You don’t move at all, steeling your nerves as he comes right into your face. You think he’s about to hit you, his free hand raised in the air, but instead he briefly pauses, then whisks off his shades.

“Look at me, Bro. Look into my eyes.” His voice cracks. “What do you see?”

His eyes, red as garnet, red as crimson, full of fire from the day he was born, are now full of fear.

A small gasp escapes from your lips as something flickers inside of you. Is it a feeling, or a memory? You want to keep staring into the inferno of his irises, but he reaches for your own shades, and then it’s your turn to flinch back. Dave’s eyes narrow, his lips curl into a snarl, but he says nothing, because you know why. This is truly the first time you’ve violated that rule—when together, you would both be with or without shades—and you think it’s because you’re afraid to unmask, never mind find out for yourself, what your eyes will tell. Silence drapes itself over the both of you like a blanket of lead.

“Bro,” Dave begins. His eyes should be blue right now, the way he must be feeling. “Bro, I‘ve always trusted you. But you don’t trust me. Maybe you never have, I dunno. But you used my trust against me. You turned my respect for you into fear of you. Even then, I’ve always trusted you, yannow? I know you’d never hurt me. But all those times before… I was afraid of you. And that’s messed up.”

You are trembling inside, but you steel yourself and shake your head at him. You have to remain dominant. “Hmph, have you been composing your little speech all night? Dave, I don’t think you understand. I’m trying to protect you. It’s dangerous out there, we could’ve gotten killed tonight—“

He cuts you off. “You always go on and on about how dangerous it is for me to be out there, and how you have to protect me, like you’re an untouchable prince and I’m some poor damsel in distress here, but you know who locked up Rapunzel in that tall-ass tower, or who got Snow White shuttled off to live in the forest with a buncha bearded munchkin men? It sure as hell wasn’t their doting parents—“

“We never had real parents!” you yell, and he stops. Your head hurts. You want to take off your shades and rub the bridge of your nose, but you can’t. “How idiotic are you? I didn’t train to be a hitman just so I could go off gallivanting through Terranos making friends with all the murderers and hackers of the underworld. We’re not the heirs to your run-of-the-mill billion-dollar fortunes, much less secretly princesses, if you weren’t well aware. Our bounty goes toward our rent, our utilities, our groceries… not some filthy pile of money under our mattresses to spend as we please! Look, I made you sit out the past few weeks because of your wrist, but don’t get all soft on me all of a sudden, alright? I don’t want you to get hurt. The more you missions you undertake, the more experience you’ll get, and—“

“You always talk about experience, Bro,” Dave says bitterly, “but you always run away from your past experiences.”

“…You know nothing.”

“I know nothing, because the way you deal with your mistakes is by ignoring them! I know nothing, because you think the best way to keep me away from danger is to not let me go out at all!”

“Don’t tell me how to raise you.”

“You’ve raised me to become completely dependent upon you! Is that how you’re planning on minimizing mistakes? By making me one of your robots, so nothing will ever go wrong?” Dave grits his teeth, and you know his next assault will be bad. “Is that what you think went wrong with… with Jake? You think that because you weren’t able to control _every single variable_ in that situation, you both ended up getting wrecked, and now you won’t even fucking talk to the guy?”

Yeah, that was bad. Your heartrate surges, with anger at Dave, but also from the effort to repress those memories. Your hand twitches, itching for the dagger. That’s really bad too.

“You’re talking to John Egbert, aren’t you? That’s who’s been texting you?”

“What of it?”

“What of it? I—ugh. Dave. That kid knows nothing about what went on between Jake and me, and even if Jake told him, he wouldn’t understand a thing. …What did he tell you?”

“Bro, you’re a fucking dumbass if you think I’d tell you after all this.” _Conversation’s done, Bro._

“Fine, be that way, you little piece of shit. Go to your room.”

“I am in my room! You go to your room!”

“I—fuck. Fucking… I’m leaving now. Don’t talk to me.”

“Wasn’t planning on it, asshole.”

“Good.”

It takes you all your energy not to flashstep out of there, but rather to exit as slowly as a normal human as possible. You accidentally slam his door—not that he would care—then accidentally slam your own door as well—not that you care—and then you slide down along the door, sitting on the floor. You take off your shades and toss them into the pile of scrap metal and loose bits, not caring if they’ll break. You put your head in your hands, telling yourself to calm down, control yourself, chill the fuck out.

You’re still sitting there, long after you hear Dave flick off the lights in his room and crawl into bed. Eventually, the moonlight dazzles you when you look up and it suddenly hits your face, and you figure you should at least stretch your cramped limbs and lay down on the bed.

 

Three A.M., and you’re still awake.

Dave’s bed is just on the other side of the wall, and sometimes if you press your ear up against the wall you can hear his faint snoring. And yet, you’ve never felt so alone in your life. When your parents abandoned you and Dave, it was still you _and_ Dave. When you became a hitman, your old high school friends had all joined alongside you, for their own various reasons, but still in support of you. But now, when you need to protect Dave the most… there’s nobody, you feel, who could protect you.

Thinking of Dave, you reach for your phone. Then, in a tired haze, you open Pesterchum:

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] at 03:06 –

TT: Roxy? Are you awake?  
TT: Of course not. It’s three in the morning.  
TT: Roxy, I need to ask you something, when you wake up.

_Fuck_ , you think. You shouldn’t have messaged her at all. You’re Dave’s guardian. You can’t rely on others for help on raising him. You have to do this by yourself, as you always have. As you always will.

TT: Never mind. I got it.  
TT: Thanks, though. I know I can count on you.  
TT: Hope college has been fun.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] at 03:12 --

You bite your lip. Is that something you would usually say? Do you talk to Roxy differently than you do to Dave, or your other friends? Is there anyone else whom you can still talk to normally?

You scoop yourself out of bed, flip open your laptop, and open a command prompt. It’s easy enough to find Dave’s username—“turntechGodhead,” what the fuck is that supposed to mean? He probably thinks of himself as edgy and cool—as well as John’s and… Jake’s, which you already knew, but. You take deep breaths to lower your heartrate and push the guy out of your brain, then continue. You’ve just entered Dave’s Pesterchum chat history and are about to de-encrypt the conversation text, when suddenly a pink, four-eyed cat appears on your screen. It’s blocking sight of everything, even your command prompt, and you realize your mouse cursor has gone missing too. You have no choice but to force shut down. But when you reboot your computer, the cat’s still there, incessantly meowing too.

“God fucking dammit, Roxy,” you mutter. Knowing her coding prowess, you estimate it’ll take a full day to de-corrupt your hard drive and get rid of her firewall/virus/whatever this dumb cat program is. Why is she involved in this anyway? Hasn’t she meddled enough in your and Dave’s business?

Right on cue, your phone begins vibrating. And of course, the caller is the one and only…

“Dirk Dumb-Dumb Strider,” Roxy’s shrill voice seems to echo throughout your skull, “what the HELL’re you doin’ at three AM trynna hack into your little brother’s Pesterchum account?!”

You retort, “Roxy I-have-no-idea-why-you’re-up-this-late Lalonde, what do _you_ think _you’re_ doing, coding that ridiculous counterattack for him? Why are you in cahoots with my little brother?”

“Cahoots, HA! That’s a funny word,” Roxy hoots. “Yeah, you’re right, it is getting a bit late. But you like my kitty-cat? His name’s Frigglish.”

“Frigglish is a good kitty-cat, but when will Frigglish leave—oh, never mind, I’ll figure that one out myself. More importantly, you haven’t answered my question yet.”

“You haven’t answered mine either, and I asked first!” You can easily imagine Roxy in her navy blue pajamas twirling a martini glass.

“Fine, I… ugh. Dave’s been talking to John, and John told Dave some shit about Jake, and I wanted to find out what.”

“You’re so predictable, Di-Stri,” Roxy laughs. Before you can respond, she asks, “Can’t you just _talk_ to him? To Jake, I mean. Figure you already talked to the li’l man.”

You roll your eyes. “Roxy, that’s not the point. Why did you encrypt his data for him?”

“For all the supposed recon that you do, you sure miss a lot of details. Me and John are, whaddya call it, pretty good broskis! So of course I cooked up somethin’ for _him_ when he asked, and I guess he musta sent it over to Dave. It’s still my program though, so it alerted me to the intrusion.”

“…Huh. So maybe Dave anticipated that I would try to hack his account, in which case—“

“Alright alright, you can play detective on your own later, alright, Dirky-poo? But lemme tell you something—I said this a bazillion times already, but it’s not good to keep him inside all the time, okay? I mean, he needs that Vitamin D and shit, but also, other human beings, yannow—“

You sigh into the receiver, and she stops. “I know, Roxy. I know. We… we had an argument. I’m thinking about it, okay?”

Roxy gasps for a solid three seconds. “Did he… did he say anything mean to you?”

“He…” Your teeth worry your lip, thinking about what to tell her, what to tell yourself. “Well, I think John might have planted some thoughts into his head. …but he might not be wrong. John, I mean.”

“Oh, Dirk…” Roxy, though less perceptive than her sister, is still the most emotionally sensitive person you’ve ever met. You’re sure that while she can’t deduce the exact nature of what was said, she nevertheless understands how Dave made you feel, maybe understanding even better than you do.

You roll over on your side, pulling a blanket over you. “Well, I think it’s time for both of us to sleep. Thanks for everything, Rox, I really appreciate it—“

“One last thing!” Her sudden volume jolts you back awake. “Janey’s havin’ a baking party on Saturday, which is, like, three days from now! And here’s the surprise: I’m bringing Dave with me!”

You frown, mulling it over. “Am I invited?”

“Uhhh, no, because Jake’s definitely gonna be there. And my read on you was that you weren’t gonna wanna go cuz of that. But I mean, I can still invite you if you want?”

“No, your read was accurate. Thanks for being considerate.”

“Soooo… can Dave come?”

You flop onto your back, letting the blanket cover only your stomach. Next to you, Dave is snoring. _You always talk about experience, Bro, but you always run away from your past experiences._

“I’ll think about it.”

“Yes!” Roxy squeals, then in the background you hear a grumpy voice telling her to pipe down. “Sorry,” Roxy stage-whispers. “Rose is, or was, asleep. …I blame you, Dirk.”

“I blame me too,” you say, then force a small laugh so she knows you’re joking. You’re not sure if either of you believe it though. “Alright, well, good night officially. See you in a few days—maybe.”

“Maybe see you! Maybe good night!” Roxy says brightly, and hangs up.

You glance back at your phone—a fake number has texted you asking for a commission. You’ll have to report to them at 10:25am on the dot at the Genesis Frog karaoke bar. Wow, what kind of client requests audiences at karaoke bars before it's even lunchtime?

You respond affirmatively to the mysterious message, then drop your phone on the ground. You’re too tired to pick it up, but you always wake up early, so you know you won’t miss the meeting. Six consecutive hours of sleep is your upper limit anyway. Hopefully Dave will be awake when you are, and you can… talk, you guess. Feeling jams are most definitely not your forte.

 

The next morning, Dave is indeed awake, shades on and all, and you catch him in the act of chugging a small bottle of apple juice. Jesus Christ, the kid is gonna end up drowning his kidneys.

You watch him scoop out toast from the microwave, still adamantly refusing to use the toaster because of the incident with the Jell-O. You realize he’s pointedly ignoring you, probably because you had ordered him not to talk to you last night, the cheeky bastard. So you venture a “Morning, Dave.”

“’sup,” he responds smoothly.

“Dave, I, uh. I added you on Pesterchum,” you say hesitantly. Suddenly you feel old, like a middle-aged guardian attempting to reconnect with his son/brother. _Isn’t that what’s actually happening right now?_ a little voice in your head asks you.

“I know,” he says simply. “’timaeusTestified?’ What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“What the fuck is ‘turntechGodhead’ supposed to mean?”

Dave looks at you, probably a pointed glare. But then he says, “Touché,” with a small smile, and your heartbeat flutters back to normal. God, you aren’t some schoolgirl asking _sempai_ out on a date.

Then you’re both standing there. You sure as hell feel awkward, but if Dave feels any smidgen of awkwardness then he’s doing an incredible job of seeming like he has no fucks in the world to give you.

You remember the mission. “Dave, we have to be at the Genesis Frog by ten-twenty-five sharp. Sound good?”

He nods. His phone lights up on the countertop, and he flashsteps over to pick it up—an unnecessary precaution, though you feel a sting of guilt. You figure you ought to leave him to it for the next few hours, but then you remember the conversation you had with Roxy last night.

“Dave?”

“What now?”

You’re not sure whether to be hurt or irritated by his tone. He’s eighteen years old, not a ten-year-old. But at the same time, you can’t get last night out of your head. “Uh, Roxy invited you to some sort of cookie-baking party with some of our friends in a few days.”

 “You’re not gonna go?” Dave looks up from his phone expectantly.

“…Jake will be there.” You bite your lip. This is exactly what Dave was talking about last night, and he knows it. “I know what you’re thinking, but right now I can’t—“

“And you’re letting me go by myself?” The eagerness in his voice is off-putting, but you remind yourself that you’re to blame.

“Roxy’s escor—sorry. Taking you. Roxy’s taking you there, and you’ll be in good company, I promise. They’re all good folks.” Dave contemplates this for a moment, but before he can respond you can’t help but add on, “You know, I think Roxy’s got something going on with John—‘broskis’ was her choice of wording. Maybe you should talk to her or John about their relationship. Just saying.”

Dave’s mouth hangs slightly agape, as if he’s about to say something but can’t find the proper words, with a thumb hovering above his phone screen. You feel so bad, but a different kind of guilty. In fact, you feel so very vindictive for feeling reassured by the crestfallen look on his face.

“Why are you letting me do this?” he finally says. “Why are you letting me go?”

Now you find yourself unable to respond. Dave side-eyes you, but the moment passes and his gaze drops back down to his phone. He doesn’t continue typing though. You step back into your room to begin suiting up. Your phone lights up with a new notification, which you see is from Pesterchum.

_Dave has accepted your friend request! Start chatting now by tapping his username._

You sigh. You wonder when he made a Pesterchum account, but even so you never would have sent him a “friend” request. After all, did you really consider you and Dave to be friends? Maybe when you were younger, but now? Where was the turning point in your relationship, from friends to… this? When did Dave begin to be afraid of you? When did you lose all self-control, all self-awareness?

You close your eyes. _I’m letting you do this because you’re all that I have, and I’m sorry_ , you could have told him. But you didn’t, and you can’t, so you won’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.


End file.
